


Men of Sense and Silly Women

by firbolging



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Caleb typical backstory, Drama, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-23 23:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 91,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23400076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firbolging/pseuds/firbolging
Summary: When Jester is sent away to the country, she meets a bookish young man who is not half as sensible as he seems.
Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 1003
Kudos: 624





	1. The Pride Before

**Author's Note:**

> okay so I've been sitting on this for some time and it's finally started to come together in my head. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.
> 
> Thank you to cheshire_lion for betaing

“Men of sense, whatever you may choose to say, do not want silly wives,” – Jane Austen, Emma

* * *

The time of courtesans was at its end, the epilogue only kept going by the few who remembered the glittering decadence with fondness. Jester Lavorre had never seen it herself, but the stories her mother told her, of Venice, of masks, of balls, kept her enraptured throughout childhood and well into womanhood. Words weaved by her mother’s beautiful voice painted pictures of something far greater than the dreary, blurry grey she saw from her bedroom window. Everything had turned prissy and stiff; restricted and dull. Ball gowns cast off for simple dresses. Nothing on the face, at most a ribbon to decorate your bonnet. Jester longed for the world her mother had known in Italy. At times, even, she felt guilty at the knowledge that she was partly responsible for Marion’s presence in England. For her very best party dresses being shut away. For Bath rather than Venice.

“But, darling,” said Marion, “Even if the Venice I knew remained, I would never want to be anywhere without you.”

It felt true. It did not feel true, however, that even Venice had become buttoned-up and boring. Paintings and stories were far more real to Jester than any facts from overseas.

“I would not have come here just for your father,” her mother insisted. “Any power or respect my profession held was dying anyway.”

A child would have made her obsolete even earlier than time had planned, though. So Jester did not misbehave too wildly. She toed a certain line, of her own kind. Enough to make trouble for others, but not so much as to bother her mother. The line, though. It was a tricky thing. And where it bent and curled like the ribbons she weighed her dresses down with, it was all too easy to trip over.

They lived in the rooms above the Lavish Chateau, a very small, but very well-respected theatre where Marion would sing for the wealthy and decadent. A great crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, obscuring the majority of the intricately painted cherubs and ocean waves. Below the tables were small and circular, creating an intimate environment for those who sat on the Chateau’s signature gold-framed chairs with ruby red cushions. The same ruby red of the tablecloths, of the stage curtain, and of Marion Lavorre’s hair.

In Venice she had been known as the ‘Ruby of the Sea’ (or ‘il Rubino del Mare’), and clients had travelled from far and wide to catch a glimpse of that hair; for a chance to run their fingers through it. Money had never been a concern then. Only those with heavy pockets could hang their coats on her dressing chair. Only those with the heaviest pockets could climb beneath her sheets.

When Jester’s father had first caught sight of Marion Lavorre, however, he did what no man, no matter how rich, had accomplished with the Ruby. He had wormed his way into her soft heart.

“What was he like?” Jester would ask.

“He was funny. He was charming. He thought the world would be far more generous to us than it was. I suppose his passion outweighed his senses. But we were young. It was to be expected.”

Even as a small child, Jester sometimes wondered if she inherited her hunger for trickery from her father. While her mother told her sweet stories of an almost marriage and the only man who had ever truly  _ seen _ her, there were also the hushed voices that carried from her mother’s parlour up through the floorboards of Nadine’s bedroom above.

For the most part, Nadine shared gossip about people and things Jester neither cared for nor knew of. She suspected this rang true for her mother too, but Nadine was the only governess who Jester had failed to terrorise from the Chateau. It must have seemed an even trade to remain patient with the chatter in return for Jester’s continued education.

But more than this, Nadine had known Marion as a fresh-faced girl, new to England and still expecting to marry. Marion could speak freely of her past in front of Nadine and so Jester eased off a little with her tricks. Not entirely, of course, but enough to keep her around.

Besides, when Nadine and Marion sat and spoke in the parlour below, Jester could always slip into Nadine’s room and eavesdrop. Her ears would go red as she pressed them to the floorboards, desperate for the mere mention of her father.

They spoke of him only in the past tense except for one lucky afternoon, when Jester heard Nadine say, “I’ve heard of a man in London whose description matches your Mr Dosal-”

“Is he well?” Marion asked, her voice thick.

“Well enough from what I hear.”

“Then I will hope this man is Mr Dosal and ask that we end this discussion at that.”

For weeks after this, the discussions of her father grew longer and more frequent, “Still as much trouble as ever,” Nadine would say, and, “What you ever saw in a common criminal posing as a gentleman is beyond me.”

Jester weaved every snippet into an ever-more intricate tapestry. The love story of her mother and father grew more beautiful with each thread. It sounded just like the sort of romance you’d read about in books. All that was missing was the lovers reunited, and a family finally whole.

“I believe your Mr Dosal has set himself up in a legitimate business,” said Nadine one afternoon – Marion Lavorre at her side and Jester Lavorre above. “At least, a man matching his description. The name changes with the weather. He is a rather difficult man to confuse for another, though, is he not?”

“I am glad for him,” said Marion delicately.

“If he sends for you-”

“If he had any intention of sending for me, my dear, I would have been sent for.”

There was a painful break in the conversation and Jester thought her ear would bleed with the force she pressed down on the wooden floor. Her patience was well-tuned. After all, she had spent her life entertaining herself out of view, keeping out from under the feet of any man who might take an interest in courting the Ruby of the Sea. There were many and they came with piles or beautiful things, keeping them shining when the salary of a singer did not stretch far enough for the finest ribbons and pearls. Jester waited for them to speak again of her father, but after ten minutes of nothing, she was forced to give up. She did not overhear any mention of her father for several years after this. And, with the Lavish Chateau below their rooms, filled with enamoured gentlemen and their deep pockets, Jester had very little to do other than eavesdrop.

The gentlemen in question were the most interesting to spy on. She didn’t watch  _ anything _ . It was mostly the aftermath, anyway, that held the most entertainment value. They would lie naked and flaccid amongst her mother’s sheets, their head in her lap as they bore their soul. There was something about her, they all seemed to believe, that made them feel understood for the very first time in their entire life. Jester stifled her giggles, committing their vulnerable forms to memory and carving intricate replicas into the tables of the bar below when no one was awake to watch.

As lonely as Jester might have been, there was no other place on earth she would rather have been than at the Lavish Chateau. It was her home, her playground, and it smelt of her mother. Besides, she had no reason to believe she would ever have to go anywhere else. While she dreamt of finding her father, the dreams always ended with bringing him home. She never worried that home would change until she was fifteen years old with her ear pressed, as it usually was, to the floor of Nadine’s bedroom.

Nadine’s voice was clipped and carried well, “No sensible man will want such a silly woman for a wife,” she snapped. “You must think of her future.”

“I will not teach my daughter to compromise herself for a man.”

Jester’s blood froze.

“Of course not. Teach her to be clever. Teach her to charm.”

“It is not possible for her to be any more clever or charming than she already is.”

“You know very well what I mean, Marion. The sort of clever and charming that will keep her comfortable.”

“ _ I _ keep her comfortable.”

“For how much longer?”

A deafening silence permeated. Jester could hear every shift in their skirts, every creak in their bones.

After a heavy beat, Nadine said, “Your youth is long past, Marion. Hers will not last longer, however much you might wish for it.” Her voice was softer though this time. Jester imagined her reaching out to gently squeeze a hand in comfort. The way her mother so often did with her. “A younger woman will come along and steal your stage soon enough. Be sensible, I beg of you.”

Marion’s voice broke as she replied, “I’ve put as much aside for her as I could.”

“You have also spoiled her.”

Jester’s teeth clattered and clenched. Who was Nadine to criticise her mother? And who was she to call Jester spoilt? As though she were some sort of brat. In anger, Jester grabbed a nearby perfume bottle and poured it out over Nadine’s ornate dressing table before being overcome with immense guilt. The bottle rolled from her grip and onto the floor with a clatter.

“Sorry,” she whispered quickly, holding her hands out as though the gesture might will the object to stay both quiet and whole, as though it might do the same for her spirit.

It did not break and, once she had placed it where it might have naturally spilled on the table, she returned her ear to the floor.

“-finest finishing schools in the country,” came Nadine’s voice. Jester’s blood turned cold. No, no, no, no. She was not going away to one of those stuck-up, soul-sucking, prisons. Far away from her mama’s embrace. “It will do her good.”

Jester’s heart pounded in her ears until she was dizzy with fear.

Until finally, miraculously, Marion said, “No.”

Relief came in waves and the tide never fully rose. From that day forth, whenever Nadine shot her mother a look or sighed too long at Jester’s teasing, the thought of being ‘finished’ somewhere far away, hovered like a thick fog.

* * *

Nadine spoke less of finishing school as Jester passed the ages of twenty, twenty-five, and twenty-seven, until finally, at the age of twenty-eight, all mention of turning little miss Lavorre into a proper lady was discarded altogether. She would not be a lady, then. She might, however, still be a wife.

Jester was not fool enough to believe this an avoidable fate. Her mother grew wearier with each year and the butter spread thinner across the bread. Something would have to be done.

“Nadine,” whispered Jester on one particularly cold spring evening, far away from her mother’s ears. The winter had not been kind to any of them. “Will you help me find a husband?”

Jester had always known Nadine to be a tight woman. Everything from her jaw to her temples were stretched and clenched at all times.

“Please tell me you are being serious,” she replied.

“I can be serious. If something is important then I can be serious.”

Nadine’s tightness slipped into a half-laugh of relief. She pulled Jester into her chest and the two women embraced for the first time in the fifteen years they had shared a home. They vowed that Jester would be engaged before the next Spring and declared to one another that they would not relent in their pursuit until it had become a victory.

But sound carried well in the Chateau, and sound carried from above just as well as below. Before Jester could so much as bat her eyelids at a nervous suitor, Marion Lavorre cleared her throat.

“I have something to tell you both,” she said.

Nadine and Jester lowered their teacups. There was an unfamiliar tremble to Marion’s voice that had them shifting to the edge of their chairs.

Marion continued, a forceful firmness shaking the tremble from her words, “Lord Sharpe has been kind enough to ask for my hand.”

“But you said no?” said Jester.

Marion opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it once more with a great exhale. “My darling girl,” she said, her eyes meeting Jester’s across the parlour. “I am so sorry.”

“Sorry because you said no?”

Many of her mother’s clients were insufferable. Others were forgettable. One or two were even kind. Lord Sharpe stood out amongst them all as the worst man Jester had ever had the misfortune of spying on. He took greater pleasure in his own pontificating than the presence of Marion Lavorre. It was almost as if she were his client, the way he took control of a room. Anyone with any sense would know Marion remained the star, but Lord Sharpe had far more pride than sense.

If her mother had to marry any man in the world, there were few choices worse than Lord Sharpe. He was not nearly as handsome, as intelligent, or as important as he believed, but he was a very wealthy man. So wealthy that Marion would never have to work, and Jester would never have to marry unless she truly wanted to. It was a perfect and terrible solution to their problems. Jester refused to let it take place.

Marion did not confirm her engagement with words. Perhaps she did not have the strength. Still, the sombre look of resolve upon her beautiful face spoke volumes.

“Mama, no,” pleaded Jester. “You can’t.”

“Darling, think of all the pretty new dresses you will have.”

Marion knew that pretty dresses meant nothing to Jester in the face of having Lord Sharpe for a stepfather, but Jester, in turn, knew that arguing would be a waste of energy. If she was to save her mother from the clutches of such a vile man, she would have to be creative. Fortunately, creativity was her forte.

The trick was not to push too hard too fast. A sprinkle of salt in the tea, to begin with. Then she would sprinkle in pepper. Then she would paint fresh over the seat of his drawing room chair. Then she would throw her voice, affecting her mother’s accent, and lure him naked onto a balcony. Then she would lock the door.

Lord Sharpe had not taken to Jester during their short two weeks spent living under the same roof. Jester appreciated the size of his manor. There were so many more corners to hide in and so many more objects to subtly rearrange (to the lord’s frustration). Jester also had a deep appreciation for beauty, and there was no shortage of beauty to behold. From the curve of a chaise longue to the embroidery on his pillows. If there was one thing to be said of Lord Sharpe it was that he had impeccable taste. If there was another thing to be said it was that he had an immeasurable temper.

“I will not hear it!” he spat.

“Please,” said Marion. “Understand that this is simply growing pains.”

Jester listened at the door of her new bedroom as her mother attempted to reason with Sharpe.

With a bark of a laugh, he replied, “I might understand if she were a child, Marion, but she is a woman. A spinster, if we are being honest. She should rightly be sensible by now.” Jester heard his heavy footsteps followed, in a barely audible growl, “She should rightly be married.”

The following day Sharpe sat down at his desk and began to write out a letter to each one of his correspondents, offering the hand of his future daughter to whoever might be willing to take her in. Across the manor, in her own rooms, Marion sat down and wrote a single letter with great haste, having it on its way to Norfolk before noon.

Jester curled into a ball on her bed, knowing nothing of her mother’s movements, and rocked herself slowly for some semblance of comfort. Four days of anguish passed. Meals were silent and tense. Jester could not bring herself to look in her mother’s eyes for the guilt of it. She had taken her mother’s great sacrifice and turned it null and void. Now both women would be unhappy and apart. When she returned to her room, she bit hard on her knees to silence her sobs. Sleep came in inconsistent patches, but Jester was deep in fretful dreams when her mother finally shook her awake.

“Mama?”

“Jester, you have to get up now,” said Marion firmly.

Jester bolted upright and caught the sight of tears. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” she cried.

“I will explain while you pack your things.”

Groggy and dazed, Jester pulled out her trunk from beneath her bed and threw it open. Without much ceremony, she tossed in her dresses, asking, “Where are we going?”

“You, my dear, are going to stay with your father.”

Jester froze, clutching silk slippers to her chest. Comprehension was beyond her. If she was to understand her mother’s words, then it would turn the world into nonsense. Her, with her father, who she had always been desperate to meet. Her, without her mother, who she had never been parted from. The looming and terrible future Lord Sharpe had painted was suddenly upon them. She had thought there would be more time.

“Darling,” breathed Marion. “Please.”

Jester nodded slowly and dropped the slippers into the trunk. With Marion’s help, they had the essentials packed in ten minutes. Anything else could be sent on after.

Once she was dressed, Jester asked, “How long do I have to stay away for?”

Marion gave a shrug and, beginning to cry again, choked on the words, “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” said Jester. “Okay. It will be fine, mama. Don’t cry. We will figure something out. We always do.”

They crept through the manor together, the weight of the trunk slowing them down even further. Every creak of every floorboard had them wide-eyed and still for a good few seconds at a time, but they eventually found their way onto Sharpe’s great stone steps. A carriage lay waiting and Nadine threw open the door.

“Wait,” whispered Jester as the driver jumped down to lift her trunk. “Nadine can’t come with me.”

“Someone has to look after you.”

“Someone has to look after  _ you _ .”

She turned and looked at Nadine with the hardest expression she could muster. Nadine gave a curt nod and climbed out of the carriage, a small case in hand.

“Nadine,” said Marion warningly.

“I won’t leave otherwise,” said Jester.

Nadine placed her case at the bottom of the stone steps and whispered, “I’m sorry, Marion, but Jester is right.”

Jester knew that if this goodbye were to be dragged out any longer then she would lose her courage altogether. Without any further preamble, she threw her arms around her mother and buried her face into her shoulder.

“Oh, Jester,” breathed Marion, hugging her tightly. “You be good. You stay safe.”

“I will, Mama.”

“I wish you would take Nadine.”

“I can look after myself,” she said, twirling a strand of her mother’s ruby hair. “And besides, father will be there.”

With a shaky laugh, Marion said, “That’s what I’m worried about. Oh.” She withdrew and pulled out an unsealed letter from the pocket of her dressing gown. “I know you must have so many more questions. I have explained everything here.”

They did not promise to write one another as they did not need to, and they did not promise to see each other soon as they could not bear to consider otherwise. With little left to say without danger of being caught, Jester began her journey to Norfolk.

* * *

It was too dark to be sure, but she thought perhaps she caught a glance of the chateau as they rode through the city. Once the sun had risen enough to give light, there was only trees to feast her eyes upon. Wearily, she unfolded her mother’s letter and read.

_ My Dearest Darling Jester _

_ I am so very sorry for bringing this awful man into our lives. I believed it to be the only way to ensure your freedom. I am still hoping it might. If your father comes through and allows you to stay with him. _

_ Which brings us to a rather touchy subject. I have never before withheld any information about your father from you. I had not heard a word from him for almost thirty years until six months ago. He informed me that he has finally set himself up with an estate in England. He promised me that, if I were to join him, we would be married and comfortable for the remainder of our lives. You can understand why I replied with a heartfelt, but sorrowful rejection. I would not have you suffer simply because I still loved a man who cannot be trusted to keep his word. _

_ I had intended to arrange for you to visit him once my marriage to Sharpe had been settled, but circumstances have seen fit to take you from me a little earlier. He is not a bad man, your father, he is simply too full of grand dreams. I am sure he will take care of you and, once I am finally married, I will have a small budget of my own to send on to you. _

_ Forever your Ruby _

_ Marion Lavorre _

Jester’s tears fell heavy onto the ink and, to protect her mother’s words, she folded the letter. She held it to her chest for the remainder of the journey. Until the carriage took a turn from road to driveway. At the sound of gravel beneath the wheels, Jester stuck her head out of the window.

“Are we here?” she called out.

The driver gave her a bemused look over his shoulder before calling back, “We are, miss.”

Jester tried to crane her neck to see the house, but the carriage turned once more, and she was forced to shuffle across the seat and stick her head out of the other window. She was greeted with a grand villa, not half as imposing as Sharpe’s, but far more interesting to look at. Where Sharpe’s manor was grand and ivy-coated, and very, very old. Her father’s villa was dotted with imitation Greek pillars and balconies. Wisteria climbed its sandstone walls, framing half of the wide windows and the front doors (painted a deep and vibrant green). Even with all of these tangible differences, there was a warmth to this building that Sharpe’s estate sorely lacked. It almost reminded her of the chateau.

The carriage came to a halt and Jester burst out, blindly tidying her hair and straightening her skirt. Her nerves blossomed and flushed in her cheeks. Somewhere behind her, the driver was unloading her trunk. There was nowhere she could look but the green door as it swung open.

Her mother had always carried a small portrait of her father, but it had faded with age and showed him in the height of his youth. Jester could not picture him any older than that. She wondered if his hair was still long or if there was any grey. She wondered if he still, as her mother had described, covered his fingers in rings.

Two doormen stepped out and a rather large man who looked far from comfortable in his butler uniform.

“Miss Lavorre,” he said with a gruff voice. “I am Mr Blude. Please come in.”

Jester picked up her skirt and gave a quick curtsey before following him into the house.

The hall was bright and cheerful, with flagstones of brick red and that same warm green colour of the front door. Blude had a long stride, but Jester managed to peak into each room that they passed. There was a parlour, a sitting room, a breakfast room, a dining room, and even what looked to be a library. The majority of these rooms were vacant of people, but as they reached the back of the house, they passed a dimly lit office. Jester lingered to squint and saw the shape of a man, his head bent over the desk. It was not her father. The flickering candlelight he wrote by showed his hair to be ginger, his face to be long, and his chin to be defined. 

As if he could sense her stare, his gaze snapped up. Bright blue eyes bore into her and she suddenly felt as though she’d behaved very badly. As she hurried to catch up to Blude, she heard the slamming of a door.

Blude was waiting by the door to the adjacent room. She expected him to turn and walk further, but he did not.

“Your father has been expecting you,” he said. Then, before Jester could respond, he turned the knob. 


	2. A Myriad of Sameness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to @oftennot for being my beautiful beta

“But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another,” – Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

* * *

The office was full of light and cool air from the windows, all wide and flung open. It smelt of the spring. At the opening of the door, her father jumped up from his desk and stared.

Age had made small changes to his face. His cheeks had hollowed, and his forehead had grown where his hairline had begun to fade. That black hair, so black it was almost blue, still swung at his jaw, although it was speckled with shimmering strands of grey. His olive skin had sprouted multiple creases and lines. All small changes that added up to betray a hard lived fifty years. Still, his eyes were the same sparkling, golden brown that his portrait had portrayed. The same shade of hazel as Jester’s.

Blude cleared his throat and said, “Mr Dosal. The young Miss Lavorre.”

Her father flashed a wide smile and gestured to the seat across from him. “Of course,” he said. “Please, come in.”

It was silly, but she had always imagined that he shared his accent with her and her mother. She tried to reorder her mind to allow him to be English and not Russian.

Nerves and excitement bubbled together until she was on the brink of letting off steam. She wanted to run at him full force and be taken into his arms. Instead she entered the room at a steady pace and gave a quick, half-forgotten curtsey, before taking the offered seat. Blude let the door swing shut and the two of them were left alone.

Once Jester was sat, her father resumed his own seat and began, “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you too,” she said, her heart swelling. “I’ve always wanted to.”

His grin slipped. “I didn’t-,” he swallowed hard, “That is to say-,” he pulled open a desk drawer and retrieved a small silver flask before taking a sizeable swig. “Sorry. This is harder than I thought it would be. You sound just like your mother.”

Jester nodded in understanding even though she did not for a second imagine she understood what he meant.

He continued, “I didn’t know you existed. Not until six months ago. If I had known…” as he trailed off, he tipped his head back and emptied the flask.

“It’s okay, father,” she said. He winced noticeably. “I have never thought badly of you.”

His smile returned; tight and pained this time.

“Thank you… would you have me call you Jester? Or do strangers call you Genevieve?”

“Everyone should call me Jester, father, but you’re not a stranger.”

He looked on the brink of breaking, though she did not know what was beneath the break. His mouth opened and closed a handful times before he shook his head, hair swinging. The grin was back as if it had never slipped away.

“Where are my manners?” he said with a laugh. “I must give you a tour, introduce you to people, and you haven’t seen the village yet have you?”

“Not yet.”

“There is much to do then. First the Myriad and then Labenda.” Jester’s confusion must have been clear, because he hastily explained, “The Myriad is my estate. Labenda is the nearest village.”

The Myriad had already astounded her but if she had passed through Labenda on her way there she had not noticed anything noteworthy about the place. She would much rather have stayed put and talked. To really get to know him. Of course, if her father wanted to pass the day with a tour then she was happy to oblige him. It was just that there was a fear that if they left that room, the brink he had been teetering on would be lost forever.

Swallowing her disappointment, she mimicked his grin and replied, “That would be wonderful.”

They retraced the hallway that Blude had led her down.

“That was my office, of course,” said her father. He waved a nonchalant hand at the door which had been slammed by the strange man. “This is just another office. For the books and accounts and other tedious things. Let’s find something interesting.”

Jester saw each of the rooms she had glimpsed, this time in greater detail. Each room was accompanied by a short example of how she might use it. For eating or reading, for sewing or playing the piano, even for speaking with friends.

“Is there a room for painting?” she wondered aloud.

He whipped around to face her. “There can be. If you so desire. Blude!” a moment later, Blude was at his side.

“Sir,” said Blude.

“Would you see about ordering painting supplies? I want an entire studio set up for Miss Lavorre.”

The formality of ‘Miss Lavorre’ chipped away at her already fractured spirit. Once the studio was set up, she would have a fine task ahead of her, painting over the cracks.

Blude bowed his head. “At once, sir.”

As Blude retreated, Jester’s father turned to her and said, “I forgot to ask. Have you eaten since your arrival?”

Jester shook her head.

“Blude!”

Blude jogged back towards them, his giant-like form shaking the smaller ornaments on their end tables.

“Sir.”

“See to it that someone fetches Miss Lavorre a meal.” Then, to Jester, he added, “We will see you are fed before continuing any further.”

Jester did not know that she could stomach eating in that moment, but she did not argue. Her father escorted her to the breakfast room before excusing himself, mumbling a mention of work.

She sat alone at the breakfast table and picked a hastily prepared plate of bread and meat. Every single chew and swallow were a crash in her ear. No meal had ever felt so lonely before. Even when eating alone, which she frequently had to do due to her mother’s disordered schedule, there had been conversations to overhear. The only thing she could hear beyond her own body was the sickeningly sweet birdsong from the bushes beyond the window.

A bell had been placed on the table, to be used to announce the meal’s end. Jester had only managed about half the plate before she could no longer hold off from ringing it. Just to hear something.

Only a minute passed before she was guided to the hallway once more, her father standing, hands behind his back, with the pungent aura of whiskey about him. However much he had drunk it did not affect his demeanour. No words were slurred on the tour of the second floor and he did not fumble for a second with demonstrating how her bedroom could be unlocked and relocked.

She accepted the key with honest gratitude.

“Go on then, would you like to see it?” he asked. “It’s not much, but it’s yours to do with what you wish.”

Jester’s excitement returned with the anticipation. Key in hand, she unlocked the door and pushed it open herself. He had not been entirely wrong to say it wasn’t much. The walls and floor were bare. Nothing had been added. It had been left untouched. But it was twice as large as her room at the chateau and with her own balcony! Sharpe’s rooms had been larger for sure but there was no space for change. These bare walls were begging for her paintbrush.

At her shoulder, he said, “I had these rooms set aside for your mother. I suppose it was foolish of me, but I have always been a fool. Especially when it comes to her.”

Jester turned to catch the look on his face as he spoke. Any feeling, however, flicked and fizzled under her gaze.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

He gave her a faint hint of a genuine smile before clearing his throat. “I will have Blude bring your things up while we’re at Labenda. Then, after dinner, I have some friends there who are dying to meet you.”

* * *

The man who had driven her from Bath seemed to be in her father’s employ. It was that same man who opened the door of the same carriage for her so he might drive them down the lane to Labenda. Her father entered behind her and sat at her side, face firmly turned towards his window. With a sigh, Jester leaned on her own window and let her head fall onto her upper arm. Her eyes fluttered closed and it felt, a moment later, as though the carriage had begun to move. But that couldn’t be right. The world was still beneath her, despite the sudden whip of wind. Eyes wide open, she stuck her head as far out of the window as she could manage without toppling out. A grey-speckled steed galloped away and ahead of them. The rider wore a hat and coat, but she did manage to catch his pale red hair, long and pulled back.

“Who was that?” she wondered aloud.

“Hmm? Who?”

“You didn’t see him?”

“I’m afraid I was miles away.”

And with that, the carriage began to move, and no more words were exchanged until they reached the village.

All of Labenda was visible from the village square. There were houses dotted on distant hills, and signs promised a coastline if you continued down the road, but the heart of the village was essentially a single street.

Hastily, her father said, “Of course, if you find the village to be lacking in anything you might want, I can send for them from Norwich or even London.”

A few locals drifted from shop to shop, giving the obvious newcomer a blatant onceover with their eyes. Jester had rarely ventured outside of the Chateau, but Bath had been too busy for anyone to take note of her when she had.

“It’s very sweet,” she said. “I’m just more used to the city than the country.”

“As am I, If I’m being honest. This place though… with its cliffsides and endless fields, has come to grow on me.” He offered her his arm which she accepted enthusiastically. “Shall we take a walk?”

“I’d like that.”

They circled the square, inspecting the displays in the haberdashery and the tailors, before stopping at the inn. The Evening Nip. Not for long, he promised, just for a quick bit of business. Jester didn’t mind how long they stayed for, but she was a little disappointed that she was left behind while her father disappeared into some backroom.

The inside of the inn held an abundance of dark, rich wood and an absence of people. The bar area was vacant save for two strong-looking, stout men who raised an eyebrow at the unaccompanied young lady before returning to their hushed conversation. Jester settled into a booth and began to drum up ideas for how to make the time pass. She had only just stumbled upon the regret of not bringing her pocketknife to carve something crude into the table’s edge, when her father returned.

“Right,” he said. “Back home?”

The two men seemed to recognise him as they averted their gaze a little too pointedly. Jester made sure to smile in their direction just in case.

Returning to the Myriad in silence somehow snapped Jester out of whatever daze she had been in since being woken by her mother in the small hours of that very morning. She had not slept since and the sun was beginning to set beneath the treeline. After checking that her father was looking away, she patted the pocket of her dress to feel for the letter. It had not been lost. She did not risk pulling it out now. Although the words spoke of her father, they were meant for her eyes only. Whether or not it was a secret was irrelevant; it was a private conversation between her and her mother.

Her things had indeed been brought up while they had been out. The broken daze and the undeniable fact of her possessions sitting in the middle of the barren bedroom caused her to begin to sob. She did not stop sobbing until she was fetched for dinner.

Hearing the knock on the door and swallowing her tears as best she could, she cried, “I will be down a moment. I am just changing.”

After taking a moment to swap dresses, Jester inspected her face in the dark window. There was not yet a mirror in her room. Although the reflection was faint, she could see that her cheeks and eyes were redder than usual. If asked, she would blame the country pollen for upsetting her city constitution. Better to be weak of body than weak of spirit.

* * *

The long dining table was sparsely populated by a handful of mismatched guests. There were a good eight of them, but they were dotted so oddly it seemed less.

“Ah!” cried Jester’s father, standing to greet her. “Let me introduce you. Everyone, this is Miss Lavorre.”

“Jester,” she corrected hastily.

“Though she prefers to be called Jester,” he said.

Everyone looked up at her for a split second before returning to their conversations and drinks. No food had been laid out yet.

A man and woman sat closest to the door, each taller and broader than any person Jester had seen before, including Blude. The woman was eerily pale with grey-lined brown hair, while the man seemed weather-worn, his blotched and burnt skin a stark contrast to his blonde, almost white hair.

“Sorah and Kutha,” her father explained. Jester did not know which was supposed to be which. “A charming couple from… what was it, Sorah?”

The woman replied, “Sweden,” in a heavy accent, not taking her eyes off of her partner.

“Ah, yes! Sweden. Then we have, Miss Sheed.”

Miss Sheed could have been no older than forty but had the distinct air of a much older woman. It was her manner more than her looks (although her dishevelled honey-blonde hair and faded pink dress did not aid her in that respect). She seemed bored by the table, by the company, even by the wine in her glass. Still, she gave Jester a warmer smile than the Swedes.

Next came a man who sat alone in the very middle of the table. When introduced as, “Mr Febron Keyes,” he gave her the widest smile she had received since arriving. He had only one tooth, yellowed and chipped, and his clothing was bright and ruffled, like a prince several decades out of time.

The final three sat together; a trio of two men and a woman were speaking intently at the far end of the table. They each shared the same warm brown skin and dark curls, sitting together with familial ease.

“Miss Therad,” he said, gesturing to the woman, who broke off halfway through saying something to retort, “Just Hannah is fine, Mr Dosal.” Shrugging, he continued, “Mr Louis Therad.” The man with his hair cropped short, showing only a hint of a curl, nodded. “And Mr George Therad.”

The last stood up and bowed, his curls a heavy mess which almost obscured his large brown eyes. When a moment had passed, George smacked his brother and, remembering they were supposed to be gentlemen, he stood up and gave her a proper bow.

Jester gave an exaggerated curtsey in return, causing Hannah to snort. It was not clear if this was in derision or appreciation, but she supposed she was grateful for the levity either way.

All seats were retaken, and Jester was ushered to sit at her father’s right hand. The food followed shortly after and the conversations slowly folded into one another with it.

Kutha said, “Widogast rode to London this morning to get a handle on the situation.”

“Good man,” said her father. “Therad?” Of the three Therads, George was the one who looked up at the name. “Will you join him when you’ve finished that business at the Evening Nip.”

“Give me two days,” said George.

Hannah interjected with, “Give him three.” Jester giggled at George’s blush and Hannah seemed to have heard. “Jester, was it?”

“That’s me,” she replied as jovially as she could muster.

“You grew up in Bath?”

“I did.”

“Please tell me everything about it. Are the men truly as handsome as they say?”

Her brothers’ rolled their eyes so quickly that this couldn’t have been the first time they’d heard Hannah swoon over Bath gentlemen.

Jester relaxed and began to gush, “Oh, I have seen so many ugly ones.”

“Truly?”

“So many! I’ve seen far more ugly people in the Chateau than handsome ones. Maybe that says more about the Chateau than Bath, but I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“The Chateau?” asked Hannah.

“Oh, it’s where we used to live,” said Jester. “My mother performed in the lounge below and our rooms were upstairs.”

“What about elsewhere?”

“I saw a couple of handsome men on the street… I suppose.”

“Oh, forget the street, Jester!” cried Hannah. “What of the balls? What fine specimens have you seen in the dance halls of Bath?”

Jester bit her lip and dropped her gaze. “I hate to disappoint you, but I never went to any balls in Bath.”

At that, Miss Sheed slammed her hand down on the table. “You never went to any balls?”

“Well…,” Jester trailed off. “No. I never went to any balls. But I’ve heard a lot about them from my mother and I’ve read a lot about them in books.”

“Mr Dosal,” pleaded Miss Sheed. “You must throw her a ball!”

“So be it,” he said. “Once the London business is concluded with, then we will have a ball.”

“I would really love that, Father,” cooed Jester.

He winced and held up a hand. “Please. Feel free to call me Mr Dosal.”

A notable change in volume fell over the table as everyone cut hastily into their food. Shame rose high and fast into Jester’s cheeks and she felt very much in danger of crying again.

Freedom allowed, she would call him father. Freedom allowed, she would embrace him. But in light of his request, Jester corrected herself. Both mentally and verbally. From then on, he would be father no longer.

As sweetly as she could, she said, “Of course. Mr Dosal.”

Whatever was left of the dinner conversation did not penetrate her numb humiliation. All energy was spent on holding back tears until she was safe from judging eyes. Once the dinner had been swallowed and the plates had been cleared, Jester excused herself, blaming her low energy on her long day. While Jester threw herself onto her bed, the party downstairs moved to another room to keep drinking. Their laughter was drowned out by her own sobs.

Her pillow was soaked through by morning. Dreams of meeting her father had always been vibrant and comfortable. There was a warm embrace and a mother at her side. Maybe she was more naïve than she had even accounted for.

* * *

Jester found herself desperately counting the hours until dinner. Mr Dosal would smile at her stories then, with an audience present to share them. The Therad siblings joined Jester and Mr Dosal for the next three nights, engaging in light conversation and at times pressing Jester to reveal more of herself. She focused on her hobbies, on painting mostly. Not a single one of them knew a thing about painting and so there was no chance of her embarrassing herself on that subject. Her paints had arrived swiftly from Norwich and she spent most of her daylight hours attempting to capture the Chateau on canvas. Each of the Therads showed interest and Hannah even asked for a lesson, when she had a free moment. Then they left for London and Jester stared at the clocks, waiting for nothing but the next day. And then the next.

One week fell into another without so much as a splash until the fortnight of sameness made Jester feel as though an entire month had passed. She wrote in her journal to compensate for the truths she felt compelled to keep from her mother. Her letters to Bath were filled with hollow anecdotes and not-so-subtle comments on how well her father had aged.

Mr Dosal engaged in the smallest of talks over dinner and always smiled should they pass each other on the stairs. Not even that lone meal of bread and meats upon her arrival prepared her for the loneliness of that fortnight.

The closest thing to companionship she could find within those halls was with a young servant girl. Lauren was friendly enough, but she was always far too busy working to spend time sitting and chatting. When Jester was desperate to wander past the boundaries of the Myriad, then Lauren would accompany her. It was only ever “Yes, Miss,” and “No, Miss” with her though. If only Hannah would return, she thought, or even Miss Sheed. Her and Lauren would wander to Labenda to inspect the ribbons. They rarely changed from day to day. Jester looked forward to eventually walking to the shore, but there was never enough time. Everyone else’s time was filled with endless tasks while Jester’s was void of a single one.

Her walls, too, remained bare. She did not have the heart to make them colourful. Even her recreations of the Chateau lacked brightness. They looked faded already, from their first inception. For a change of pace, she painted Nadine. The drab colourings suited her well and that made Jester laugh. Overall, however, the paints did little to lift her spirits.

Her mother replied with line after line of how sorely she missed her. Though, as pointedly as Jester had left out her own misery, it was clear Marion had done the same. Sharpe was never mentioned.

It took that fortnight for Jester to come to her senses. Though the unhappiness and the sameness of each day had numbed her, she was still herself. There were more empty rooms on the upper floor than used ones, especially now that every guest was busy in London. Each gave their own vantage point for spying, but one sat directly above her father’s office. It was there that she wasted most of her hours. A satisfying day was one where she heard at least one quiet conversation float up through the floorboards.

Whatever business her father was currently dealing in, she did not know, but there was little to suggest it was legitimate. Not that she cared. She was simply curious. Mr Dosal, however, kept all business discussions as vague as humanly possible when Jester was present.

On the Thursday of her fourth week, Jester sat in wait on the floor of that bedroom for the fifth time. She rolled her eyes around the room and found, as always, nothing of interest. It did not appear to have been in recent use. The only sign that anyone had ever used it was a dogeared book by the side of the bed. She had given it a quick flip through, but no amount of boredom could ever bring her to read something so droll as “An History of the Earth and Animated Nature.” Her tastes lay in fiction. In romance.

Growing tired of the wait, she shifted positions, placing her head flat on the ground so that she could kick her legs up and rest them against the wardrobe. Her skirts slipped down to her knees, flashing her white stockings and slippers. She was not too worried about being discovered. It might give her something to laugh at for a minute.

For almost an hour she lay like that, knocking her knees together and trying to mentally recount the plot of the book she had been reading before she had fled Sharpe’s in the night. She had forgotten it entirely, leaving it in one of the sitting rooms. The title, too, escaped her.

Then, mercifully, Blude’s voice boomed below. “Mr Dosal.” Jester’s ears twitched and she turned just enough to press one to the floor. “Mr Widogast has returned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen... you asked for a slow burn and here we are
> 
> please kudos/comment if you enjoyed!


	3. White Rabbit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so so much to my beautiful beta @oftennot

“Just the kind of man whom every body speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to.” – Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

* * *

Jester’s ear was still heavy against the floor, her legs kicked up to the side, when the door to the vacant bedroom was pushed open. The man she had seen in the office during her first day at the Myriad; the same one who had ridden off ahead of their carriage on her first visit to Labenda; the man she could only assume to be Mr Widogast, stood in the doorway. The curtains were drawn, and the room had only been lit by a pool of sunshine that gathered directly beneath the window. With the opening of the door, he had cast a frame around Jester’s body. The darkness in all corners contrasted quite brilliantly with the small square of light from the hall which illuminated her.

“Oh,” she said, moving only enough to lift her head. “How do you do, sir?”

He had all the physicality of a cornered rabbit; still, wide-eyed, and seemingly ready to run and jump through the window should it be his only means of escape. Jester smiled at him and placed her elbow on the floorboards, letting her head fall into her palm.

“Forgive me,” he stammered. His accent was unmistakably German. “This was my room before I left. I assumed…” he trailed off and placed a shaking finger between his white collar and his white neck. His pale red hair shifted and hit the low light. Whatever his business in London had been, his greasy locks spoke of little opportunity for bathing. Finding his words once more, he mumbled, “Are you using this room?”

“I was,” she said, clambering to her feet. It was not the awkwardness of the situation that had pushed her, however, but a growing stiffness in her shoulder. “But you can have it back now.”

He remained still as ever, and she wondered what he would do if she took a step towards him. So, she did just that. With only a moment’s delay, he stepped back into the hallway. She took another step forward, and him another backwards. As though they were reenacting a dance long forgotten by halls for its insipidness.

Once they were both out of the room, Mr Widogast pushed almost halfway towards the stairs by her exit, she gave him an exaggerated curtsey.

“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” she said.

“Call me Mr Widogast,” he replied weakly, flashing an even weaker attempt at a smile. “Might I assume you are Miss Lavorre?”

“Call me Jester.” At that, she walked briskly past him while he nearly flattened himself against the wall to avoid their shoulders brushing. Once she had given him space to relax, she turned and added, “Oh, and please don’t forget that we have baths here.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s only that you smell quite terrible and your hair looks filthy.”

He looked like less of a rabbit now and more like a wounded dog gaining the courage to bite back. With a straight face, she waited for the bite to come. But it seemed he would only bite his own tongue.

Words dripping with irony, and teeth gritted, he said, “Thank you for your advice Miss Lavorre.”

It was with great difficulty that she kept her giggles subdued until she had closed her own bedroom door behind her.

* * *

In Mr Widogast’s stead returned the remainders of her father’s employees, along with a few Jester had yet to meet or hear of. That evening, there were enough guests to fill the dining table. For the first time since the Therads had departed, a little under a fortnight prior, Jester did not feel alone.

There were no vacant seats and so no chance for the dining party to divide. Jester made to sit at her father’s right as always, but he let out an awkward cough which paused her motions.

“I was just wondering,” he said, staring at his cutlery rather than her face. “If you might benefit from sitting elsewhere tonight. I can only assume you are weary of my conversation by now. Besides, there are other young people here for you to meet tonight.”

“What a wonderful idea,” she replied, forcing a smile that he did not see for the siren song of his soup spoon.

One of the Swedes took her space, the name of which she had forgotten without much care. Jester held her own head high as she marched to the far end of the table, taking the vacant space between Hannah Therad and a young woman she did not know.

“Miss Lavorre,” exclaimed Hannah. “This is Miss Catherine Cree.”

“Oh, please, Hannah!” replied the woman in question. “You know by now to call me Kitty.”

Kitty had an elegant look to her, her dark black skin free of any blemishes, her dainty neck long, and her hair braided into a perfect low bun. All of this only served to contrast the lack of luster in her maroon gown. She gave Jester a gentle nod and returned to her previous business which, now Jester was at her side, she realised was attempting to scratch a dried splatter of mud from her skirt. Jester glanced down at her own gown (brand new and already a little scuffed at the hem).

This did not hold her attention for long, however, as she caught sight of the man sitting opposite. The only indication that there was a mouth beneath his wild and wiry beard was the smoking pipe poking out. There was an even wilder look in his eyes and his gaze seemed to settle on nothing in particular. His shoulders and hands quivered beneath an invisible weight.

“Mr Denton,” said Kitty. Jester turned to hear further explanation. “He likes to be called Dweez.” Jester snorted. “I think he got the moniker from his wheezing.”

Hearing his cue, Dweez spluttered out his pipe and fell into a dry coughing fit. Neither Miss Sheed (on his left) or Mr Keyes (on his right) so much as flinched.

Jester let her eyes travel towards the two other unfamiliar guests – a moon-faced young woman of no more than seventeen and an older man, the oldest at the table by far, with a face full of almost as many scars as wrinkles. His skin danced somewhere between sallow and sunburnt. She enquired after the woman first. “Miss Windilon,” said Hannah. Then the man. “Captain Rodel,” said Kitty.

“Miss Windilon is something of a tragic character,” Hannah continued.

“Aren’t we all,” added Kitty.

“All but Mr Keyes,” said Hannah. “He is a comedy.”

The three of them all looked over to Keyes at that moment. Feeling three sets of eyes upon him, Keyes looked back and gave the women an aggressive wink, flashing his single yellow tooth as he did so.

Mr Widogast did not join them until after the first course had been served. He mumbled his apologies and took his seat, pulling out a book and reading all the time that he ate.

Jester craned her neck to try and catch the title, but he was so far away that it was difficult to see past the piles of potatoes. Forced to give up, she entertained herself by getting to know Kitty.

“I don’t have much of a story to tell,” sighed Kitty.

“That is a lie if ever I heard one,” said Hannah. Leaning in as though speaking to Jester in confidence, she continued, “She is on the run.”

“I am not on the run.”

“A nun on the run.”

“I am not a nun and I am not on the run,” said Kitty, but her mouth was pulled into a wry smile. “I was a nun and now I am a spinster.”

“Why did you leave?” asked Jester.

“Oh, it was a wonderful scandal,” said Hannah.

There was no elaboration on the matter and so Jester let it lie for the time being. At Kitty’s request, she gave up her own story. After all, there was little of it she felt shame over. It was only the way it had ended, with her foolish attempts at saving her mother only pushing them apart, that grieved her.

“And then I came here,” she finished. “Which was an incredible surprise, you know, I’ve always wanted to meet my father.”

The remnants of the final course were being removed, but between the arms of the staff, Hannah said, “And now you are having a ball. Truly, the most incredible things happen under the Gentleman’s roof.”

Jester had heard Nadine refer to her father as such before, but she had always assumed it was an ironic mockery of his pretending to be nobility. Apparently not. As calmly as possible, she enquired, “The Gentleman… that was his name in London, wasn’t it?”

Across her, Kitty and Hannah shared a look. Kitty took the plunge first, asking, “How much do you know about your father’s business?”

“Not much,” said Jester with a shrug. “Only that it’s crime.”

Neither of her dining companions had anything to say to that and so Jester, now that the table was clear, took this opportunity to crane her neck once more towards Mr Widogast. He had not stopped reading, but the book was still difficult to make out. She leant a little further over the table and accidentally tapped the edge of her glass with her wrist. It did not shatter, or even fall, but it emitted a high-pitched noise which was enough to startle Mr Widogast into looking up. Catching her looking greedily at his book, he narrowed his eyes at her. He did not seem irritated, however. Only confused.

“What are you reading?” she mouthed.

Blushing deliciously once more, Mr Widogast glanced fervently from side to side to check that nobody was watching this exchange. Nobody was, for even Hannah and Kitty were lost in their own conversation (whispering rapidly behind Jester’s back). Relaxing a little, but not entirely, Mr Widogast pulled the book down into his lap and stared firmly downwards. It didn’t look as though he was actually reading it anymore, but he was apparently determined to appear to be reading, just as he was apparently determined that Jester not know the title of his book.

With a pout, Jester slumped back into her chair.

There was no late night of drinking and talking to be had. The journey north had been long and tiring, and everyone was keen for sleep. The majority of the party piled into a carriage, four at a time, heading back to the Evening Nip in Labenda. Only Mr Widogast was to stay at the Myriad.

“Why do you not stay here?” asked Jester as she hugged Hannah farewell.

“Oh, there’s far less to do here than in town.”

“In Labenda?”

“You just have to know where to look. Now where are my fool brothers? Louis! Wait for me.”

Jester wondered if this secret world of fun was what kept Mr Widogast at the Myriad, miserable man as he was, or if her father kept him close because he was particularly important. There was no way to tell. She heard no one mention or address him over dinner. Hannah and Kitty had gossiped wildly about every single one of their fellow guests (prompted largely by Hannah of course), but not one word was uttered about the man silently eating and reading alone at the table’s end.

The following morning, her father announced that, “Your ball will be this Saturday,” over a breakfast set for just the two of them. Saturday was three days. Too far and yet too close. She needed a new dress. Would there be time to order in what she wanted from Norwich? And in that endless stretch of nowhere near enough time, would she be able to survive such a wait?

From Labenda, Hannah wrote promises of joining them for dinner should she find the time. The time was not found, however, and Jester ate every meal in painful silence with Mr Dosal. Her dress had been sent for; her hairstyle planned and planned again. There became little to dream up during these silent meals and so she became fixated on the other man she shared the Myriad with.

“Why does Mr Widogast not join us?” she asked.

“Mr Widogast?” said Mr Dosal, as though the very idea of it had never occurred to him. “That man thrives in dark rooms filled with books. He never keeps company if he can help it.”

“Is he a vampire?”

Dosal snorted. “Perhaps. Or perhaps a gift from above. Truly, I would be lost without him. He works more than he breathes, that man.”

“He enjoys working so much?”

“No one is forcing him to skip meals, Miss Lavorre.”

Jester wondered if Mr Dosal had come to realise that the best way to silence her was to address her formally. Purposeful or not, though, she dropped the subject.

* * *

While the Chateau had served as a preservation of all things ruby and Rococo, the Myriad employed the dual threads of Biedermeier simplicity and Neo-Classical beauty. The block colours and understated furnishings were all atop marble and dotted with pillars and faux recovered statues of ancient times. Nowhere in the Myriad was this blend more evident than the ballroom.

Jester had spent several small hours, hands placed daintily on an imagined suitor, stepping out a waltz. The waltz was new and romantic and exotic. There was little about the dance that did not tickle her sensibilities.

She would frolic between the ridged columns that lined the dance floor, wondering how she might utilise their phallic nature for her artistic endeavours. Her art block had not been totally shucked off. The walls of the ballroom could do with drawing off of the Sistine chapel, rather than the one shade of pale green it currently employed. Tables and chairs were also simple, giving the stage entirely to the marble floor they sat upon. Yellow vases filled with yellow flowers decorated each surface, understated and without originality. Each hour spent running wild in that room shook the block a little looser each day. Seeing how little had been done to decorate for the ball shook it almost entirely loose.

Jester herself was done up in the most vivid pink frock that Norwich had to offer. Her sleeves and hem were dusted with a light frill and her bust was underlined by a ribbon in a much deeper shade of pink. She had pulled on her best silk gloves and even experimented with different braiding techniques before settling on a style she knew better to give her more time to concentrate on curling the strands that would frame her face. As a finishing touch she opened her jewellery box and, fishing out the pearl bracelet Sharpe had gifted her during their first meeting, decided to wear it as a reminder of her mother.

She was giddy in spite of herself. The guest list was lengthened only by the addition of what Mr Dosal referred to as “business in London.” It did not exactly inspire romantic fantasy. But Jester was happy with the promise of a flesh and blood partner to step onto the floor with.

There were no shortages of invitations. She swung between old man and even older man for the majority of the night. The Captain danced the best, but Dweez was by far her favourite partner. It was endlessly entertaining to watch him turn bright red in vain attempt of swallowing his splutters. The business from London came in the shape of three middle-aged men, one of whom showed a distinct interest in Jester until she was formally introduced as Mr Dosal’s daughter. The look on his face when he realised, though, that was priceless. So her partners were largely of her father’s employ. The Captain, Dweez, the Captain again, and even Mr Keyes. The male Swede took her for a quick spin and spoke very pointedly of his wife the entire time.

All the while, her gaze flickered to Mr Widogast. He had deigned to attend the ball, but spoke only to her father, and only when approached. Book in hand, he sat in a corner of the room, largely hidden by a column and only visible when Jester was positioned in a particular section of the dance floor.

Her fixation with the man was inevitable. He simply did not make sense. If he was boring, then he was boring. The illogical aspect was that he was boring at the Myriad. She had seen boring men try to be interesting by seeking her mother’s company before, but she had never heard of a boring man continuing to be boring while working personally for the leader of a criminal business. In fact, he was boring in service to crime. A miserable and boring man in one of the last vestiges of free society England had to offer.

Jester’s curiosity could not be sated by mere observation. Mr Widogast gave away nothing but an air of discomfort. Perhaps he was not used to parties. Perhaps he was too used to them and thought this one substandard. While Jester felt she was usually skilled at reading people, how to push them and when to ease off, this man was an enigma.

At the edge of the ballroom, watching all with a drink in hand, stood Hannah. Ducking into her side, Jester asked, “What can you tell me about Mr Widogast?”

“Mr Widogast,” said Hannah slowly. As though considering the name for the first time. “I think of him as a means of business more than as a person. He does not speak of anything else nor do I know of anything more to him than his work ethic. It is rigorous and one would be foolish to compete with him in that respect. He is not missed during social hours but is always the first man you think of during the working day.”

“How can a man with such an interesting chin have such a dull character?”

Hannah shrugged and said, “He’s German,” before tipping the entire contents of the teacup into her mouth as though the matter had been settled and explained by the simple fact of a nationality.

“Are all Germans boring?”

“They are all sensible. Just as the English are all secret perverts and the French are all secret prudes. As the Swedes are of few words and the Italians are of too many.”

“What about Russians?” she asked, letting her accent thicken like syrup across each syllable.

Hannah gave Jester a long, studying look, before concluding, “Decadent.”

Jester gave a conceding wave of her silk gloved and pearl bound wrist before falling into laughter with her companion.

“What a shame I should share a roof with Mr Widogast of all people,” said Jester. “I don’t get along well with sensible people.”

Still laughing a little, Hannah linked her arm through Jester’s and began to lead her towards the table her two brothers sat at. “Come, let us not speak of Mr Widogast any longer,” she said. “I want you to marry into my family.”

The brothers looked up at the approaching women and nodded their heads in acknowledgement.

“I am terribly cross with the both of you,” said Hannah. “Miss Lavorre has been without a dance partner for three songs now. Won’t one of you volunteer to cause a scandal? It gets so boring in the country and if I cannot have a torrid romance then I would like to live vicariously through my kin.”

Jester giggled while Louis froze, and George rolled his eyes.

“Come then, Miss Lavorre,” said George, standing. “My brother is too shy to ask, and my sister is too petulant to let the both of us sit peacefully.”

It was not the most romantic invitation, but Jester smiled and curtseyed all the same. “I’d be honoured.” She was decidedly unoffended by his lack of enthusiasm as they walked together to stand opposite one another on the floor. A dance partner, after all, was a dance partner, and having seen the Therad boys together far more often than apart, she was interested to see what differences she could pick at when alone with just the one.

The music began and they began their separately well-practiced movements. Forwards, backwards, chest to chest, turning, apart. It was mindless as it was impressive how they all moved in and out of one another. Jester had mimicked every inch of ballroom choreography, alone in her room when she should have been studying from books. Each one of her governesses had attempted to balance Jester’s desire for the arts with their desire to teach her hard facts. Jester, in turn, had taken the arts and run away with them, leaving hard fact in the dust.

If she had had her choice of partner, she would have chosen the younger of the two brothers. While George was prettier to look at, Louis seemed much easier to make squirm.

“I apologise if my conduct has offended,” said George. Their arms were both raised as they turned in a circle. “You understand that the Myriad does not run itself in accordance with what society might deem proper.”

“I wouldn’t know, sir. I have never been a part of proper society.”

“So, if I were to give a vague indication of a corrupt inclination,” he trailed off as they separated to walk behind the backs of their fellow dancers. Upon reuniting, he continued, “So as not to entirely cast-off manners.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever thought much of manners. You can be open with me.”

“I have never been particularly interested in dancing with women.”

“Then why ask me now?”

“My brother is a fool at the best of times. His foolishness only worsens in the close company of charming women. He has embarrassed himself tripping over his feet to impress on the dance floor so many times that I am terrified of him stepping onto one. Especially with a pretty woman.”

Jester did not know what to think of this compliment, so freely given, and so she shrugged it off and said, “Well, whatever your reasons are, I hope you ask me again. I haven’t exactly been expecting to find romance under my father’s roof.” She glanced off towards Louis and wondered if perhaps the moniker of ‘charming’ had come directly from him. He sat staring into his teacup while Hannah whispered into his ear.

“If my brother does ask you to dance, I pray you will not be too flattered,” said George quickly, evidently noticing her line of sight. “He has fallen for more women than there are days in the year. I don’t know how he manages, but then he doesn’t think of much else.”

“You speak so highly of him,” she teased.

“I adore him, but there are only so many times I can listen to his newest god-awful poem about his latest upset. I have no doubt in my mind that he cultivates rejection as another man might cultivate reciprocation. He believes that heartbreak is the correct state of being for an artist.”

“Heartbreak has only ever made my art worse.”

“And here we were under the impression that you were unsullied by romance.”

Her right arm was up, her gloved palm against his bare one. The pearls on her wrist caught the light. “There are a lot of things,” she said softly, “That can break a heart.”

Where there had before been an expression of mild interest on George Therad’s face, there was now a curiosity. So long as it wasn’t pity, she thought, she could bear any kind of scrutiny.

“Still,” she pressed on, “I do have ideas for this room in particular. What do you think of a mural in the Greek style, on that large wall over there?”

“Greek as in?”

“Muscular men in various stages of undress.”

Straight faced, she watched him closely. At first he looked almost offended, as though she might have been mocking his own tastes. Then, when she did not break, he smirked and said, “I think that is exactly what this room needs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! I hope you liked this one <3 please comment/kudos if you enjoyed and hopefully I will see you all soon with chapter four


	4. The Invulnerable Miss Dosal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to @oftennot for betaing <3

“She was moreover noisy and wild, hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the world as rolling down the green slope at the back of the house,” – Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

* * *

Whatever busied everyone at the Evening Nip continued to busy them and if Jester should press her father to give her an indication of what exactly they were up to, or to even allow her to attend one evening to see for herself, he would drop the, “Miss Lavorre,” with a, “There is nothing there that would interest a fine young woman such as yourself,” or even a, “Only dull business I am sure.”

Hannah’s words from a few night’s back permeated his dismissals.  _ You just have to know where to look _ . Perhaps her father did not know the extent of their activities. Though this seemed unlikely. The problem with this line of thinking was that it did not account for that first trip to Labenda, where he had quickly concluded some nondescript business in a backroom. It also did not account for the fact that there were so many empty rooms at the Myriad, and yet only Mr Widogast occupied one. A free room in a villa is surely a better stay than a paid for one at a dark inn.

The longer she stayed at the Myriad, the more she believed something wonderful must be happening in Labenda to keep everyone away. Jester had not thought it possible that any place in the world could best the Chateau in even the smallest of categories. This was before she had grown accustomed to having a garden. Too distracted by trickery to truly appreciate the grounds of Sharpe’s estate, she had not spent all that many hours out of doors. Save for the odd walk with Nadine through the streets of Bath. A week and a day after her ball, Jester had fallen in love with a particular spot of the grounds. While Lauren was busy fixing the tears in Jester’s dresses, Blude was busy watching Jester tear them anew by rolling herself down the slope just behind the Myriad.

“You got very close to the river that time, Miss,” he said, as she reached the peak after her fifth tumble.

Breath ragged, she replied, “Don’t be silly, Blude! It’s more of a stream,” before throwing herself down the slope once more.

She did, in fact, land with a whole leg in the stream, but shaking it like a dog, she ran back up to where Blude sighed.

“Why don’t you give it a go?” she asked.

Blude looked down at her, from his massive height, and gave her a narrow-eyed smile. In a low voice he said, “If I wasn’t in my butler uniform.”

Jester snorted and dropped to the ground, rolling another four times before, on the final landing, pressing herself up with muddy palms, she saw her father running frantically from the back of the house.

“Jester!” he cried. “Blude, where is she?”

“I’m here!” she said, attempting to untangle her hem from a particularly prickly weed without completely ripping it. When she had freed herself, she looked up to see Mr Dosal mopping his sweat-ridden brow with a handkerchief. A sudden fear overcame her, that something terrible had happened to her mother. She did not even have the clarity of mind to appreciate the use of her first name. Running up the slope at full speed, she called out, “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“It’s Sunday,” he said simply. Then, to Blude, added, “See to it that a carriage is prepared.” Jester watched on bewildered as Blude calmly obeyed and her father descended further into panic. “We’re already late.”

“Late for what?”

“For church!”

“Church?”

Jester had never been to church in her life, and she had certainly never heard her father speak of it before.

As he spoke, he continued to dab, “Apparently the landed gentry are supposed to make a showing at church. To ingratiate themselves with the locals. God, we’ve already roused suspicion by not attending as long as we have.” He swallowed hard and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We shall start today.”

“Okay.”

Finally, he put away his handkerchief and properly looked at her. “You are filthy.”

Knowing it to be true, she dropped her gaze down to her dress anyway. “Right. I should change?” she asked.

“Quickly please.”

Jester took the stairs to her room two at a time. As she ascended, a pasty ginger figure descended, having to duck out of her way and almost throwing himself over the railings in the process. Her mind had cleared enough to allow her a small giggle at Mr Widogast’s floundering.

Hair tidied and dress new, Jester clomped back down the stairs to find her father in deep, hushed conversation with Mr Widogast. They both twitched a little at the sound of her arrival but did not break in speaking. Jester wandered as close to the pair as she dared. Their tones, however, only grew more hushed. She heard nothing.

Growing irritated, she said, “Father, aren’t we late for Church?”

They turned to look at her. Dosal fumbled, “Right. Yes. Mr Widogast, remember what I told you?”

Mr Widogast tapped his temple and said, “Like a steel trap.”

Jester tried to catch his eye and was surprised that he caught it back. So deep in shock was she that when he gave the bridge of his nose an exaggerated rub, she could not figure out what it meant.

“You have dirt on your nose,” he muttered by way of explanation. He then walked firmly past her and began his journey back to his office. As he did so, she caught the faint signs of a smirk upon his face and her irritation grew. That he should speak so freely with her father, she thought bitterly, and then mock her, was a truly terrible crime. She was suddenly, in his wild irritation and heartbreak, very glad that Mr Widogast mostly kept to himself.

* * *

Mr Dosal’s breath remained ragged in her ear for the whole journey to Labenda. Jester, meanwhile, spent the entire time rubbing her nose until it was raw.

As their carriage pulled up outside the little church, they saw just how late they were. Members of the congregation were trickling out into the surrounding graveyard. Dosal swore and sunk down in his seat. From either despair or a desperate desire to not be seen.

Jester looked at him, sweating and sinking even further, and felt more for him than she ever had before. “Father,” she whispered. His wild eyes darted towards her. “Why don’t we just slip into the crowd and pretend we were there for the sermon?”

“They know my face too well and they have been complaining of my absence at Church for months now. Miss Cree, who is in constant attendance, relayed this information to me this morning.”

“So, Kitty is out there?” she asked. Dosal shrugged and Jester made her decision. Eyes fixed on the crowd, she said, “And this is to seem proper, yes?”

“Naturally.”

“Then take the carriage to the Evening Nip. I will meet you there.”

And with that, Jester leapt from the carriage and snuck through the crowd, using the foliage and her anonymity as camouflage. Nobody looked twice at her. She kept her face bowed and her bonnet low. From the carriage, she had caught sight of Kitty and made note of her dress. It was in the same style and state as the maroon one she had worn to both dinner and dance, only in a pale blue. Once the skirt became visible, Jester looked up enough to tap her shoulder.

Kitty turned and, before she could exclaim a greeting, Jester linked their arms and said, loudly, “What a fantastic sermon that was.”

No doubt startled by the strength of her accent, a few of the flock gave her a sideways glance. Kitty gave Jester’s arm a brief squeeze of understanding.

“I always enjoy Mr Sol’s sermons, but I do agree that this morning’s was particularly inspiring.”

“Father will be so sad to have missed it,” she continued, voice still projecting. “Tell me, do you know Mr Sol? Might you introduce us so I can pass on my father’s apologies?”

Kitty, too, raised her voice to say, “Of course.”

As Jester was turned and guided back towards the entrance of the Church, she smiled sweetly at the now numerous onlookers, very few even bothering to pretend that they were not staring.

“Of course,” she continued, as Kitty kept them moving, “My father, Mr Dosal, will be in attendance every Sunday from now on, but he is such a loyal man it has been hard to tear him away from Mr…,” searching for a name for her invented reverend she grasped the first that game to mine, “Sharpe’s sermons. Unfortunately, the journey is really taking up too much time which might be better spent on running the Myriad and engaging with the locals.”

Jester broke off only because they had just crossed the threshold of the church and so passed the congregation. The church was empty of life save for a single man, hunched over his lectern with a bemused smile upon his round face. It was the littlest church Jester had ever seen and the only one she had ever been in. When her and Kitty stepped onto the stone flooring, their footsteps echoed up into the high ceiling and jerked up the head of the reverend.

“Mr Sol?” said Kitty, pushing Jester forward gently, “Mr Sol, this is Miss-”

“Dosal,” said Jester quickly. “Miss Dosal.”

“A pleasure to meet you Miss Dosal. I am Mr Sol, as I’m sure you know.”

His voice, slow yet upbeat, and decidedly not English, took her by surprise. Though perhaps it should not have. Every sweetly sung out syllable made complete sense coming from his sweetly sleepy face.

“I have never met an American before,” she admitted. “I did not expect to find one in such a quaint village.”

“Respectfully, I am from Canada,” he said, his smile never wavering. “But I understand that our accents are one in the same to the English.”

“I’m Russian.”

“See? It goes both ways.”

Jester laughed. “I just wanted to compliment you on your beautiful church and your wonderful sermon.”

“Then I am flattered.”

“And next week my father will attend with me.”

“Oh, a busy man like him, I won’t be offended if he can’t make the time.”

“But he will make the time!” cried Jester. “Miss Cree can vouch for me, can’t you Kitty?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Mr Dosal is an incredibly pious man. He has simply had trouble breaking his commitment to attending sermons in the last village he lived.”

Jester continued, “Unfortunately the journey is long and so we have agreed that it would be best to worship locally.”

“Well,” said Mr Sol, releasing the hunch from his shoulders and revealing himself to be significantly both wider and taller than he had first seemed, “I am a firm believer in more being merrier.”

Jester laughed again, as hard as she could. Kitty joined her. If Mr Sol saw through them then nothing in his immovable smile gave it away. This did not, however, ease Jester’s growing paranoia that she was being transparent.

She added, “I couldn’t agree more,” then, unable to forget that this was her first real chance to prove herself useful to her father, she said, “And of course father would love for you to call at the Myriad this week.”

Mr Sol’s bushy eyebrows raised. “I’m afraid my week is rather full, but I would be delighted to rearrange.”

“Of course,” said Jester. “He will write to you.”

“I look forward to hearing from him.”

* * *

As Jester and Kitty spilled back out into the Spring sunshine, Jester burst into uncontrollable nervous laughter. Kitty did not laugh, but hurried them along and whispered, “What was all that about?”

“Father wants to seem proper.”

“Mr Dosal? Proper?”

“Well, he wants to become respectable eventually. I admire him for it.”

“I can imagine that being a criminal’s daughter is difficult for you. If you were ever to consider marrying…”

There was no elaboration needed.

Jester did not confess that she personally cared nothing for respectability. It was not about her own reputation; it was about showing herself to be capable of working for her father; about further cementing his foundations so that her mother might come to trust him again.

Exiting the church yard, the Evening Nip instantly became visible, just a little way down the hill.

“Anyway,” said Jester, lowering her voice, “I thought you were a  _ papist _ .” And she said ‘papist’ with the same amount of venom she knew others spoke it with. “What are you doing going to see a Reverend?”

Kitty let out a low, whistling sigh. “I do not know myself and I do not believe in half of the things I once did. That does not mean I have completely abandoned faith.”

“You were really a nun?”

“Once upon a time. Oh, is that your father’s carriage?”

They had come upon the inn. “It is,” said Jester, “And I should not keep him waiting. He was rather panicked this morning.”

Kitty walked with her the short distance to the carriage and saw Jester in safely, giving Mr Dosal a nod and curtsey.

“Mr Dosal,” she said by way of farewell, “Miss Dosal,” she said with a nod at Jester before turning and leaving.

Jester settled herself into her seat and caught her father’s eye.

“Miss Dosal?” he asked.

Embarrassed, she said, “You did say that we were to seem respectable.”

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, that is clever. Yes. Well done.”

He was proud. And once the shock of the morning had worn off, he would show it properly. She told herself this over and over as they rode back to the Myriad. She told herself this as they shared a near silent dinner.

“Did I mention that Mr Sol said he would call for tea sometime next week?” she said, cutting a carrot into tiny pieces to hide her lack of appetite.

“You did, yes,” replied Mr Dosal. “It was a job very well done.”

When she climbed into her bed that night, she did not tell herself again that her father’s pride would surface soon. It was difficult enough to keep an optimistic face on in public. She did not have the energy to wear it in private.

* * *

The following day was wet and grey. The gardens were visible, but out of reach, and Jester could only stare through rain-streaked windows at the view. She passed the morning by writing beautiful lies to her mother.

_ Mama _ , she wrote,

_ I hope you are still doing well, and that Lord Sharpe has been treating you kindly. If he is not, then I will march all the way back to Bath do such terrible things to him that he will long for the old days of simple tricks. I trust that Nadine is a constant companion. I am missing you terribly, but father offers me solace. He is just as kind and charming as you described, Mama. If a little shier in his old age. He makes no eyes at or mentions other women. His heart is still yours. I am certain. _

_ I fall more in love with the Myriad every single day. There is a little slope behind the house which I have taken to rolling down whenever father is busy with work. More often than this, though, we spend time together. We have discussed all the changes I might be allowed to make to the place. Anything I might wish for, he says, I may have. He really spoils me. _

That last part, at least, was the complete truth.

_ I wish more than anything to see you again, and soon. Even if it means having to sit in a room with your fiancée. _

_ Your loving daughter, _

_ Jester _

__ After handing the letter to Blude for delivery, she was simply left with an endless stretch of day to fill. She supposed she might take a look at some of those home improvements she had wanted to make one week prior. Before she had been distracted by the joys of being out of doors.

The ballroom was first. She had not set foot in it since the ball, but while she was in there she spun around with a faceless prince, spending a good half hour in a giddily imagined world. Returning to reality, she moved on to the music room.

As the days passed, the sun returned. Jester did not seize upon this immediately. There was a list to finish and a father to pester. If tiptoeing around the man did not earn his affections, then she would need to take a more direct approach. Starting with her plans for the Myriad.

Once she had finished sizing up every one of the downstairs rooms (save the private offices and spaces where the servants worked), she approached her father’s study with a full list and a great deal of confidence.

The knock on his door was greeted with an almost immediate, “Come in.” Yet, at the sight of her entering, Mr Dosal practically jumped from his seat.

“Miss Lavorre,” he cried. “Forgive me. I expected Blude.”

“That’s quite alright,” she said. “I only wanted to discuss ordering a few items of furniture. For those improvements we discussed.”

“Of course. Whatever you want.” He was hastily closing books while smiling too widely for comfort. “I was actually just heading off to Labenda, but Mr Widogast should be in. If you give him the list, then he can figure out where to order your things and command Blude accordingly.”

He grabbed his coat and hat from the back of the door and, smiling all the while, gestured for her to exit the room with him.

“I will be back for dinner,” he said.

“Okay, Father.”

His smile turned to a familiar wince. “Mr Dosal please.”

She nodded and watched him leave, heart sinking with all the broken tragedy of a shipwreck. Swallowing her sadness as best she could, she turned her attention onto the adjacent office.

This time, she did not wait for a reply before opening the door, “Mr Widogast?”

Mr Widogast practically had his nose to his papers in the dimly lit room. She did not know how he managed to read in such a dungeon let alone spend most of his waking hours locked up in it. “Miss Lavorre,” he said, sitting up. Jester closed the door behind her. “Would you mind leaving the door open?”

“Right. Wouldn’t want to seem improper,” she snapped, yanking the door open with such ferocity that it rattled the books in their shelves.

Mr Widogast sat up a little straighter, wide-eyed and tight-lipped as Jester stomped over and began to drag an empty chair from the wall to the desk.

“Is everything alright, Miss?” he asked, unease evident in everything from his cracking voice to his twitching fingers.

Throwing herself down in the chair, she said, “Everything is fine. Why wouldn’t things be fine?”

“You just seem a little…” he cleared his throat, “Never mind. How can I help you?”

“I have a list.”

“A list?”

“Yes, of things I need.”

“And you would like me to order these for you?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Might I have the list then?”

“Oh,” said Jester. She realised then that the list was still clenched in her fist. “Sorry.” She handed it over to him.

“Thank you. Will that be all?”

“I suppose so.”

“Then I apologise, but I must return to my work.”

Trying very hard not to snap again, she said, “Of course. Thank you for your time.” Her words were heavy with irony, but they were spoken calmly at least.

She had one foot in the corridor before the storm broke. Spinning on her heel, she faced Mr Widogast again.

“Don’t you ever get sick of it?”

“I’m sorry?”

She threw herself back into the chair and said, “The pretension. The quiet. The goddamn monotony of it all.”

“You are referring to the Myriad.”

“No, Sir, I am referring to the false propriety. Even in the privacy of home.”

“I see. Have you spoken with Mr Dosal about this?”

“Mr Dosal does not have much time for speaking. The two of you are quite alike in that respect.”

She had given too much of herself away, she knew, but her blood had begun to boil to hot for there to be no steam. Mr Widogast nodded slowly, not meeting her eye.

“I am not upset,” she said carefully. “I am just bored.”

His eyes flickered to her face for a split second before returning to the list written in her hand that lay between them. With another clearing of his throat, he said, “Well, hopefully some of these items will keep you entertained. Until then, there are always slopes to roll down.”

“Unless it rains.”

“Unless it rains,” he conceded.

A wry smile escaped her, and, between two blinks, it seemed as though Mr Widogast mirrored her. No, she thought. He looked as sombre as ever. It must have been a trick of the candlelight.

“Thank you for your time, Mr Widogast,” she said softly. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

As she left, she considered leaving the door open just ajar; just enough to irritate. Then, with a resigned sigh, she pushed it closed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! please comment/kudos if you enjoyed <3


	5. Croquet for Beginners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! I'm officially done with assignments so I'm back on widojest. Thank you so much for waiting and thank you, as always, to my beautiful beta @oftennot

"You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine, but which I have never admitted.” - Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

* * *

_ My Dear Kitty _

_ Father is having another panic. Mr Sol is to come for tea tomorrow and father has now realised that he does not know enough about the church to appear a very religious man. I have assured him that Mr Sol is likely to have interests beyond his faith, but there is no settling the man. Would you consider joining us? You are our only friend who is not a godless heathen. _

_ I know that we will be alright without you. However, your presence might rescue father from his nerves. I would also be delighted to see you. If you cannot make tea tomorrow, then do not hesitate to visit any other day. We will always have time for you and the rest of your fellows at the inn. I must admit that this house feels too big sometimes. Father is kind, but busy. I would take great pleasure in you calling. _

_ Your Dear Friend _

_ Jester Lavorre _

* * *

Though Kitty wrote back promptly, promising to attend, Mr Dosal did not stop pacing the parlour until she arrived.

“What if Mr Sol comes early?” he asked, turning to pace the other way, a handkerchief to his dripping forehead.

“Then we will make conversation about the house and grounds,” said Jester softly. She was perched on one of the old chairs and attempting to fix the needlework she had failed at so terribly the day before. It was supposed to be a dog with angel wings, but it had wound up looking more like a bird with a snout. “I’m sure he’ll be interested in all the changes we’ve made.”

Jester had spent the week filling the house with personal touches - Greek statues scattered across the lawn, and ruby red chairs for the dining room. She had also begun to paint the wall of the ballroom. Her father had approved every single addition without batting an eye.

“He’s a holy man. Aren’t they supposed to be against decadence?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never really known one before.”

“Neither have I. Good God, where is Miss Cree?”

Jester got to her feet, placing her needlework to the side. “How about I go and check on the tea?” she said softly. Her father made no indication that he had heard her, so she left without further conversation.

She shut the door behind her very slowly, careful not to let it slam. With a shaky breath, she glanced up and down the corridor and, seeing no one, let a few tears slip loose. It was not long, however, before the sound of clopping and carriage wheels clattered across the gravel drive.

Righting herself as best she could, wiping her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her dress, Jester plastered on a smile and ran to greet their guest. Kitty had been asked to arrive before Mr Sol and she did not disappoint. It was her black curls and maroon dress that Jester saw climbing from the carriage.

“Kitty!” she cried, rushing forwards.

“Miss Dosal,” replied Kitty brightly.

Jester offered her arm and Kitty took it, allowing herself to be guided into the Myriad.

“Father!” Jester called from the doorway. “Miss Cree is here.”

Mr Dosal pulled open the door to the parlour with a wild flourish, his sweat-soaked handkerchief clenched tightly in his other hand. His cheeks were still a little flushed.

“Miss Cree,” he greeted. “How delightful.”

They sat, sipping tea, making difficult but simple conversation.

“How is Labenda?” asked Jester.

“Quiet,” said Kitty.

“Even in the Evening Nip?”

At that, Mr Dosal fell into a light coughing fit, broken only by a sound from beyond the window. All three of them snapped their heads to look.

Mr Widogast’s red hair flickered in the near distance as he stumbled slightly over his own feet, looked around nervously, and (seemingly not realising he was being watched) continued his stroll across the lawn.

Jester drifted towards the window and said softly, “Is Mr Widogast joining us?”

“I cannot imagine he has the time,” said Mr Dosal, slumping back into his seat.

With a hard swallow, she nodded. Mr Widogast had not so much as met her eye since her outburst in his office. It was both a comfort and a struggle. The further away from her he stayed, the less likely it was that she would have to explain herself to him. The embarrassment of her childish vulnerability still haunted her when she tried to sleep. Still, his increased silence only served as a reminder of what she had said. On the odd occasion that they passed each other, Jester took on the role of frightened rabbit; afraid he would speak and afraid he would say nothing.

As Mr Widogast grew smaller in her line of sight, another carriage pulled into view. Behind her, someone scrambled to their feet.

At her elbow, her father breathed, “Is that him?”

Jester did not need to answer him. Mr Sol opened the carriage door and smiled pleasantly at nothing in particular.

* * *

Mr Sol’s smile did not diminish through the greetings or the apologies at having started drinking the tea without him. He smiled as Mr Dosal rang the bell for more tea and he smiled as Kitty complimented his Sunday service. While both Jester and her father had been present for the most recent one, Mr Dosal’s nerves had not allowed him to take any of the sermon in and Jester had, admittedly, been more interested in what hats every attendee was wearing than the Lord or his teachings.

They took their cues from Kitty until the conversation turned, blessedly, towards what Mr Dosal had rehearsed.

“I hope,” said Mr Sol, smiling as sweetly as ever, “That my sermons live up to those of your Mr…”

“Sharpe,” Mr Dosal finished with confidence. “A dear old friend, but his parish is far too much of a trek to make every single Sunday, I’m afraid. I am glad to have such an articulate and dedicated reverend in Labenda. I did not find myself missing Mr Sharpe this Sunday. I doubt I shall find any reason to stray from your sermons, Mr Sol.”

They spoke on, smoothly, and Jester’s attention waned. Her eyes fell upon her discarded needlework and Kitty, following her gaze, whispered, “Is that your work?”

Jester sighed and pulled the thing onto her lap.

“I’m afraid I’m not too skilled with a needle,” she said wistfully. Whatever work she had done to compensate for the initial disaster had only served to make a bigger mess. “I’m better with a paintbrush.”

Mr Sol interjected, “You are a painter, Miss Dosal?”

“I am,” she said, smiling in spite of herself.

“That’s just marvellous.”

A new kind of silence fell. Almost pleasant. Jester could not help but break it.

“I intend to paint the skyline of Bath on the back wall of our ballroom.”

“Well, that’s wonderful,” said Mr Sol. “I would love to see the finished product.”

“Of course, sir,” said Jester, melting a little under the reverend’s persistent warmth. There was something of a father about him. Or how she had always imagined her father might be upon their meeting.

“Mr Dosal,” said Mr Sol, turning back to the gentleman by his side, “I did not know you had such a charming daughter. When you let the Myriad, I was under the impression that you were single.”

Jester watched her father intently for any sign of nerves. His demeanour remained calm, while Jester herself picked, absentmindedly, at the loose threads of her needlework.

“My darling Genevieve,” he began, causing Jester to tug harder at the thread, “Has been in great want of female company since the loss of her mother, God rest her soul. She has been staying in Bath quite often, with her aunt.”

“I have never been to Bath,” admitted Mr Sol. “Do you miss it much, Miss Dosal?”

Jester blushed fervently and stared at her own lap. “I would always rather be where father is, but there is not competition for the dance halls of Bath.”

Mr Sol gave her a wink. “I’m sure. Are you missing a charming suitor?”

“Yes,” said Jester. She looked up to see her father frowning behind Mr Sol’s back. Forcing confidence, she continued, “I was very fond of a Mr Fancypants.”

“A Mr Fancypants?” asked Mr Sol, bemused. Mr Dosal’s frown broke with the widening of his eyes. Jester felt as though she had something very wrong but was not sure what.

Beside her, Kitty let out an unnatural laugh. It sounded like a near perfect imitation of Hannah’s rather than anything Jester had heard from Miss Cree.

“Of course, that’s not his real name,” said Kitty, voice still tinkling with false laughter. “He is just so fancy, that we have taken to calling him that.”

Mr Sol nodded. “I assumed it was another peculiar English name. I’ve been taken by surprise a few times. A month ago, I met a Mr Relish.”

Mr Dosal and Kitty both laughed while Jester returned her gaze to her lap, and her failure. The badly sewn dog seemed to be laughing with them.

* * *

The remainder of the visit passed in a heart-pounding blur. Jester could focus on very little other than her own body. The space beyond was untamed territory. Twenty suffocating minutes pressed onto her so heavily that when Mr Sol took his leave, she felt an unprecedented degree of relief. She barely remembered wishing him farewell, only really coming to when the carriage had rolled out of sight and her father had given a little jump of joy.

“I believe that went very well,” he said. “Very well indeed. I believe Mr Sol might be one of the most agreeable men I have ever met.”

Kitty snorted, “By that you mean he is easily fooled.”

Jester watched Mr Dosal shrug Kitty’s accusation off with ease. Something sour churned inside her. Brightly as she could, she asked, “Maybe we could celebrate with a game of cards? Or croquet! The weather is perfect for croquet. I assume. I’ve never actually played it.”

“Yes, yes, that sounds wonderful,” replied Mr Dosal with a wave of his hand. “But, Miss Lavorre, first we must drink to our success.”

“And I must take my leave,” said Kitty.

Mr Dosal gave Kitty a smile and a nod before wandering back towards his office, humming an unfamiliar tune beneath his breath the whole while.

Once her father had gone, Jester rushed forwards and grabbed Kitty’s hands. “You’re always welcome here, you know? You should come as often as you like – more often than that, even. We have spare rooms here if you wanted to spend a night, or a month.” Kitty gave Jester a gentle smile which Jester took to mean that she had overstepped. Hastily, she added, “Only if you want to, of course.”

“Thank you, Miss Dosal,” she said.

“Please, Kitty, call me Jester. Or Miss Lavorre if you’re feeling formal,” she finished bitterly.

* * *

Mr Dosal gave Jester a pleasant smile as she joined him the following morning. She returned it enthusiastically, but he had already buried his nose back into a stack of papers. “So,” said Jester, sitting down at the heavily laden breakfast table. “Are we playing croquet today?”

“Yes, fine,” he muttered in response.

Jester watched him closely, half expecting him to realise what he had agreed to and change his tune, but his good mood from the day before did not seem to have wavered.

“How about we play before lunch?” she pressed.

He nodded. “Sounds wonderful.”

Her heart burst and, as she filled her plate with pastries, she hummed that unfamiliar song that had been playing in her head since she’d heard it on her father’s lips.

Before she could take a bite, Mr Blude entered the room.

“Miss Lavorre,” he greeted with a bow of his head. “There is a parcel for you.”

“For me?” she asked, standing to accept the brown box Blude offered. “I don’t think I ordered anything.”

There upon the brown paper, she saw her mother’s exquisite handwriting – silver ink and swirls. Shoving as many pastries as would fit into her pockets, Jester excused herself from breakfast and ran up to her bedroom. She locked the door behind her and tore into the paper.

On top lay a letter which she opened first.

_ My Little Sapphire _

_ Your letters are my greatest treasures and I am so overjoyed to hear how well your father is taking care of you. Though I would rather you be enjoying yourself by my side, your happiness is paramount to me no matter where you might find it. _

_ Lord Sharpe is the same as ever, but I do not want that to worry you. He has always treated me well when we are together, and he is in London on business until next month. My only complaint is that I miss you. _

_ I would have called for you to return to Bath the moment Sharpe rode off, but his staff are loyal. I am certain word would get back to him. He bares you no ill will, but he is as stubborn in his opinions as he is in his choice of wine (you remember the incident with the Admiral, I am sure). He believes that your life will be greatly improved by an advantageous marriage and will not be shaken from that belief. _

_ Still, no man, no matter how wealthy, will not shake my own beliefs. You, my dear, will marry for love alone and nothing else. My only regret is that I have never given you this opportunity. Perhaps when all is settled, you and I might join Sharpe in London and, without the threat of terminating our engagement, Sharpe cannot reasonably push you towards his own choice of match. _

_ I have been thumbing through your library. At times it makes you feel a little less further away, but I feel guilty keeping them all. I will send a few volumes along with a dress Lord Sharpe has bought for you. _

_ I am counting down the days until we can be together again. _

_ Your Ruby _

Turning back to the box, she saw a dress of bright yellow, scattered with the smallest, prettiest blue flowers. She knew by that, that her mother had chosen it. Letting out a choked laugh, Jester pulled the fabric to her and face and began to sob.

Beneath the dress were four well-worn, leather volumes. Sniffling, Jester reached for one, flicking through.

“Mr Fancypants and Harriet,” she breathed, falling into a familiar love scene. “I told them it was a real name.”

Prickles of embarrassment danced across her tear-stained cheeks, but she continued to read until nothing but the most fantastical of romances felt real. She had not even considered it would be so long before she was with her mother again. A very big part of her was still holding onto the idea that everyone would come to their senses, that Lord Sharpe would be dropped like the rotten apple he was, and her family would be finally whole. Silly, really. Just like the stories in her books.

She set the book aside, along with the letter and the dress. She would deal with them later. In the meantime, there was a game to be played.

Jester fixed her hair and skipped down to the front lawn. Lauren was waiting there, croquet mallets and hoops in the grass.

“You just hit the ball through the hoops, right?” asked Jester, picking up a mallet and swinging it wildly at nothing in particular. Lauren ducked without cause. “Just hit the ball as hard as possible?”

Jester squinted at the nearest statue – Hestia posing for any visitor of the Myriad, welcoming them into a home. She wondered if she could hit the ball through the gap between Hestia’s right arm and the handle of the jug she held. There was a decent curve to the elbow. It wouldn’t be impossible.

For a moment, she was so focused on this distant goal, that she did not notice a man striding towards her. It took her another moment of squinting in the late morning sun to see that this man was not her father, but Mr Widogast.

She called out, “Are you joining us?”

Mr Widogast continued his stride, saying nothing until he was close enough to speak softly. “Miss Lavorre.” He bowed his head. “I’m afraid Mr Dosal will not be joining you.”

The croquet mallet almost slipped out of her hands. Mr Widogast’s head remained bowed as he pressed on, “He wished for me to relay his apologies. It seems some urgent business has arisen that must be attended to immediately.”

“Of course. Work comes before all else,” she muttered, tightening her grip on the mallet until she felt the blood struggle to reach her fingertips.

Head still bowed, Mr Widogast gave the slightest of nods and turned back towards the house.

“Wait!” she cried. He obeyed, freezing at once and turning his head enough to see her in his peripheral. “Will you play?”

“I would not wish to rob Miss Schvine here,” he gestured towards Lauren, “Of the opportunity to play.”

Lauren tripped over her words as she tried to hurry them out of her mouth, “Oh, it’s no trouble at all, Sir.”

“Lauren doesn’t want to play with me,” said Jester sourly.

Mr Widogast exhaled shakily, shifting his gaze between the feet of both women. With a smile that looked almost painful, he said, “Then I would be delighted to play.”

“Great! I don’t actually know anything about croquet, but I think I’m going to be very good.”

His pained smile softened with a snort. “I’m sure you will be.”

“Miss Lavorre,” said Lauren from behind them. “If you wouldn’t mind… I have some of your dresses to mend…”

“Yes, yes,” snapped Jester. “Everyone is very busy. Everyone has work. Run along then.”

Lauren picked up her skirt and hurried into the house without looking back.

“I have not played any ball games since I was a child,” admitted Mr Widogast, reaching down for the other mallet.

“You’ll be fine. Just hit the ball at the hoops as hard as you can.”

“I was under the impression that croquet was a gentle game.”

“Well, I should hope not. That sounds very dull.” To prove her point, Jester ventured towards a stray ball and tapped into as lightly as she could. It barely budged before rolling back towards her. “See!”

“I stand corrected.”

With a wicked grin, she whacked the ball halfway across the lawn, far wide from any of the hoops.

“Should I fetch that?” he asked awkwardly.

“No, there are more balls,” she said, gesturing to the three that remained by her feet. “Go on. Take your shot.”

Mr Widogast obeyed once more, taking a gentle swing, managing to land the ball quite close to one of the hoops.

With a teasing tone, Jester said, “I thought you hadn’t played before.”

“I hadn’t. I suppose I'm just a natural athlete.”

She could not tell if he was joking or not, but she let out a breathy laugh anyway. She took her next shot, followed by another from him. If this was croquet, she thought, maybe it wasn’t such a loss to have never played it before.

Mr Widogast was often silent, but perhaps he was not used to silence from her. After a round or two passed without Jester making a single comment, he cleared his throat and said,

“Your father does care for you, you know?” Jester snapped her gaze to his face, blood running cold. A light breeze rustled a strand of his red hair. “If he didn’t,” he pressed on, gently tapping the ball wide of the hoop. “He wouldn’t be spending so much on things like this.” He jerked his head over at Hestia.

Jester bent over to take her own shot and said, “They’re just statues, Mr Widogast.”

“Well, these alone have stretched the budget.”

Her knuckles whitened upon the mallet once more. “I suppose I should be grateful that he has given me anything at all.”

Mr Widogast began to stammer, “That is not at all what I meant.”

“No, you’re right,” said Jester, straightening up and staring him down. “I am lucky to be here and not out on the street.”

“You are twisting my words.”

“And I should not complain,” she continued, Mr Widogast’s protests falling on unwilling ears, “I should learn to be happy with what little I have.”

Without any further words to properly express her overwhelming frustration, Jester took a wild swing with her mallet and sent the ball flying at Hestia’s face. It grazed her nose and chipped it a little before landing all the way across the lawn. She did not wait for Mr Widogast to comment and stomped through the freshly cut grass, not bothering to lift her skirt to save it from green stains. Once she reached the ball, she seized it in her free hand and shoved it into her pocket with that morning’s pastries. Then, with a last fierce glare at Mr Widogast, she stormed into the house and up to her room.

* * *

Jester had been fully prepared to stay locked in her room for the remainder of the day, to deny dinner and speak to no one. There were stale pastries still stuffed in her pocket from breakfast and she nibbled on an apple tart as she sat on one of her window sills, staring out and rolling the ball between her palm and her thigh.

Out of the carriage stepped Kitty, dressed in a coat and bonnet, and carrying a reasonably sized case.

Cramming the remainder of the pastry into her mouth, Jester leapt onto the floor, flung her door open, and scrambled down the stairs.

“Kitty!” she cried as she ran.

Kitty had only just entered the foyer.

“Kitty! What are you doing here? Are those your things? Are you staying here?”

“Jester,” said Kitty, giving Jester a small smile and letting Blude take her case. “I thought I might take you up on your offer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! please comment/kudos if you enjoyed <3


	6. Ladies and Their Various Accomplishments

“Selfishness must always be forgiven you know, because there is no hope of a cure.” – Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

* * *

Kitty proved herself to be a delightful distraction. They would take walks around the garden together, sew together, drink tea together. She even spent an afternoon teaching Jester how to properly play croquet, giving Jester ample time to conclude that croquet (when played according to the rulebook) was the most insufferable game on the planet. After that, they moved on to cards. Far more interesting and, even when gambling with buttons, Jester took great pleasure in hiding cards up her sleeve to ensure victory. Kitty did not seem to mind losing.

“I’m used to it,” she sighed, pushing the small pile of buttons towards Jester. “Hannah is impossible to beat. I’m sure she cheats, but I’ve never caught her in the act.”

Jester cocked an eyebrow and watched Kitty closely. It felt like an insinuation. She did not cheat as often from that moment on. If Kitty was aware of it, then it wasn’t half as fun.

They passed four happy days, arm in arm, turning about the grounds. During that time, Jester managed to wrangle very little more than company from Kitty. She offered no information on the Evening Nip and her presence did not encourage Mr Dosal to leave his office. Not that it wasn’t _enough_. It just did not soothe the dull ache that had plagued her heart since arriving at the Myriad. It was, after all, just a distraction from the sad facts. Her mother was across the country and Jester would likely not see her for months. Her father was close but somehow more distant in spirit, and Mr Widogast only added to the embarrassment of it all - side-stepping her in hallways and never, not once, looking anywhere but at the floor.

If he thought her a brat then so be it. What did he know of her pain? She walked by him with painstakingly minute steps. Just to watch him fumble for a little longer.

Jester might have been reasonably distracted by Kitty for another week or so, but she was not given the chance to grow restless. Before the week’s end, Kitty received a letter from Labenda.

“Oh,” she said, smiling to herself.

“What is it?” asked Jester, dropping her needlework and rushing from her chair so she might squeeze beside Kitty on hers. “Who’s it from?”

“Hannah,” said Kitty. “The Therads are coming for dinner.”

Jester bubbled from her fingers to her toes. Excitement and anticipation and, oh! She had allowed her painting to fall to the wayside. Leaving Kitty to her letter, Jester rushed to the ballroom and attempted to move her work along. There was some improvement by the evening, but nobody showed any intention of going anywhere near the ballroom in any case.

Hannah leapt from the carriage and into Kitty’s open arms.

“It has been awful without you, Kitty,” she cried, laughing as she did so, swaying with the embrace. “You must never leave me alone with my terrible brothers ever again.”

Of her terrible brothers, Louis exited first. He gave Jester a nod and brushed past. George exited with a firm smile.

“Miss Lavorre,” he said, standing to his full height and offering her his arm. “How kind of you to have us this evening.”

Jester linked her arm through his and said, “Don’t be ridiculous. You are always welcome here.”

Dinner was a raucous affair, in spite of there being only six at the table. Mr Dosal engaged in easier conversation than Jester had seen since the tea with Mr Sol, and even Kitty seemed brighter. Guilt burrowed down from her heart to her stomach. She wondered if Kitty was staying away from her friends because she felt sorry for Jester. Her loneliness had not been well concealed. Had she not begged her to come and stay?

“What have I missed?” asked Kitty over soup.

“Oh, nothing much,” said Hannah casually, giving a pointed look in Jester’s direction without much subtlety. “Except!” she dropped her spoon and clapped with glee. “Louis has written a sonnet.”

Louis hissed, “Hannah!” while George snorted.

Jester beamed at Louis as he slurped soup angrily. “Oh, Mr Louis! That’s wonderful.”

He paused his slurping, spoon still to his lips, and gave her a cautious look.

“Sometimes,” she continued, “I worry that there’s no place for art in Labenda.”

Lowering the spoon, he said, “That is my worry as well, Miss Lavorre.”

After dinner they convened in the parlor for games, excepting the ever-busy Mr Dosal who retired to his office. Jester was half-hoping she might finally get to play cards with him, but realised very quickly that she should have known better.

Hannah dealt. Cutting and shuffling with a prowess that Jester had never seen before. A beautifully wicked spark of joy outshined all disappointment. Now, if she could only slip an ace or two up her sleeve without Hannah noticing.

“Oh,” said Jester, pouting at Hannah's fast hands. “Miss Therad, you seem to be incredibly skilled. I hope you don’t mind how poorly I play.”

Kitty raised her eyebrows but said nothing. While Hannah tossed cards at her brothers, Jester gave Kitty a wink of gratitude. Formidable was too gentle a word to describe Hannah’s skill at the card table, but Jester’s determination only grew with every loss. She still had the talent of distraction up her sleeves.

Her hand was not overwhelmingly strong, but her aim was not to win, necessarily. Keeping Hannah from executing her tricks was all she truly cared for.

“Hannah,” she began delicately, “Your company tonight has been such a refreshing change of pace. I wonder if you and your brothers might visit more often.”

George replied, “I cannot say I prefer the food back in Labenda. Your father keeps an excellent kitchen staff here.”

Without looking up at her cards, Hannah said, “That is true. Although, we are very often bound to the Nip.”

“I am sure,” said Jester, tossing a pair of buttons into the center of the table. “I am grateful that you could spare Kitty.”

Kitty said, “I am not half as useful.”

“Are you not?” asked Jester.

Hannah laughed, “Though trice as useful as my brothers put together.”

Louis glared while George smiled. Jester had to wonder if there was any further depth to either man as the next round of cards were dealt.

“I am still not entirely clear,” said Jester. “On what it is you do at the Nip.”

George said, “Louis writes awful poetry.”

Jester’s gaze was on Hannah, however, and the woman’s poker face did not break. All too casually, she replied, “Louis sometimes writes. George sometimes attempts to be funny. I work.”

“For my father?”

“For your father.”

“He has so many employees,” said Jester as the everyone made their final raises, calls, and folds. “I don’t think I will ever put my finger one what every single one is responsible for.”

Their hands were revealed. Louis first. Then Kitty, then Jester. Hannah gave a smile and flipped over the Queen of Diamonds to complete a flush.

“Why don’t you come to the Nip sometime,” she said, delicately plucking each button and adding it to her mountainous pile. “I’d be delighted to show you around.”

Jester froze with surprise. Hannah had teased her with the Evening Nip before, half drunk and clambering into a carriage. She had not expected such a tangible offer.

Once the shock had eased, Jester said, “I would love that.”

“Wonderful!” cried Hannah.

Kitty shifted in a poor attempt to conceal her discomfort. If the Therad brothers had a problem with Jester’s presence at the inn, however, they gave no indication. Louis was gathering the cards with a sour face while George swirled the gin in his glass.

When Louis began to shuffle, Hannah said, “Oh, that’s enough for tonight I think. But, Miss Lavorre, if you would have us again, I think all three of us are free on Friday evening. Perhaps then we can discuss your visit.”

Jester took the conversational loss, and happily so. Hannah might have been the second most impressive woman she had ever met. Of course, she held no candle to Marion Lavorre. No one in the world ever could. Besides, was it really a loss if she had gotten a taste of something she desperately wanted?

* * *

After their depart on Tuesday night, Jester spent the following two days working, tongue between her teeth, on her ever-expanding mural.

“Would you like to help?” she asked Kitty.

“I’m not much of an artist. But I’ll happily read while you work.”

So, Jester would paint her memory of Bath while Kitty refreshed her memory of the Lord.

“It’s coming along nicely,” said Kitty.

“It’s still far from finished.”

“Still, I think you should show the Therads. It’s impressive, even in its infancy.”

It was late afternoon, rather than evening, when the Therads returned. At the sound of their carriage wheels on the gravel drive, Jester jumped up.

“Oh, Kitty. I’m not dressed.” The pale pink dress that she did have on was splattered with paint. “Will you keep them busy while I change?”

She hardly waited for a reply before rushing up the stairs.

Upon opening her wardrobe, she grumbled. All of her best dresses were being mended or washed, or both. She ran her index finger along what remained. None inspired joy. Then she thought of the yellow dress from her mother. It was still in the box I had arrived in, awaiting an occasion worthy of the woman who had gifted it.

Jester moved slowly towards the box and lifted the lid with great delicacy. The letter had been stowed in her bedside drawer and the books were displayed proudly on one of the previously bare shelves. Only the dress remained. It looked so small.

A small smile played on her face as she pulled it out and ran her eyes over its fabric. It had not been tarnished by her tears and it still smelt, if she really buried her nose in the skirt, of her mother’s perfume.

Ten minutes passed before she stepped foot on the staircase once more, yellow dress lifted just enough to not be scuffed by her shoes. Laughter down the hall told her that the Therads had already been welcomed in. She followed the noise to the parlour.

“Jester!” cried Hannah, rushing to embrace her. “Kitty was just telling us about your masterpiece. Come, you must show us how it is coming along.”

Jester grew very hot and almost wished she had chosen one of the plain gowns for fear of staining the yellow with her sweat. She looked between her four companions for some hint of an escape. George gave nothing away while Kitty offered only a supportive smile.

Louis, however, met her eyes with such intensity that she momentarily forgot the problem at hand.

He spoke firmly. With great feeling. “If Miss Lavorre is not ready for the world to see her piece, then we should wait.”

“Oh,” said Jester, appreciating the sentiment yet sitting uncomfortably on the passion behind it. “It’s no trouble. I would be happy to show you all.”

As she led them into the ballroom, regret rose in her chest. The colours were a little clumsy. Too bright in many places. She ought to strip back the whole thing and start again.

“That,” said George, stopping dead in his tracks in the centre of the dance floor, “Is outstanding.”

“Truly?” she asked.

He was hard to read at the best of times, but there was nothing about his focused gaze to indicate falsehood. Hannah moved to stand at his side and tilted her head, saying, “And where is this?”

Kitty said, “I believe it is Bath.”

“Of course, it is bath!” cried Louis. He rushed to stand nose to wall.

Jester made to call him to stop. The painting looked better from a distance. Then she remembered that the wall was still wet and held her tongue. When Louis turned to face the group, there were smudges of blue on his white shirt and brown cheek. Jester stifled a laugh. Neither George nor Hannah were half as successful.

“Oh,” said Kitty. “Louis, you have a little…” trailing off, she pointed vaguely at her own face and chest.

With a confused frown, Louis brought three fingers to his face, smudging the paint further. When he saw what had happened, he let out a ‘humph.’

“I apologise,” he said through gritted teeth. “If I have in any way marked your work. If you will excuse me. I am going to see if Mr Widogast would be so kind as to lend me a clean shirt.”

The giggles burst from Jester before Louis was out of ear shot.

“Was that on purpose?” asked George.

“Of course not!” she cried, attempting to sound offended at the mere thought of it while giggling all the while. “Come, enough of my painting, let us return to the parlour for tea.”

Louis did not return right away. Jester thought he must have been successful with Mr Widogast and imaged that perhaps they were murmuring, now, about her immaturity. This imagined slight brought an extra stomp to each of her steps and, even when seated, she fidgeted with irritation.

“What have you been working on, Kitty,” said Hannah softly. Her and Kitty crammed together on a small sofa to inspect Kitty’s embroidery. They spoke on in soft voices that did not quite reach Jester’s ears. George displayed no disappointment at being left out, lounging on a comfortable chair, eyes on the ceiling.

When the door to the parlour opened a moment later, it was not Louis who entered, by Mr Widogast. Jester’s disapproval at his presence slipped through to her scowl.

“I am sorry to intrude,” he said, half-looking her way. “Miss Therad, Mister Therad, I did not know you were here. I was wondering if I could have a quick word.”

George leapt to her feet, as did Hannah. Mr Widogast swivelled with clear intent on leaving the room, but the siblings convened on the far side of the parlour. He let out a shallow sigh and followed.

Jester strained her ears for a whisper that might escape their little huddle, but to no avail. Kitty perched beside her.

“It won’t be anything of interest,” said Kitty, tone hushed. “Mr Widogast is all accounts and tedium.”

Jester softened slightly at the insult. But Mr Widogast kept sending fleeting glances her way, all the while seeming intent on avoiding eye contact. She would have preferred for him to not look at her at all. The way he was behaving - shifting, and fidgeting, it was as though she was a dirty musket about to misfire.

Her fuse having been very much lit, she narrowed her attention onto the piano in the corner. It was decidedly less grand than the one in the music room, but Jester did not need grandeur to accomplish her goal.

She rose to her feet and wandered towards the instrument, lifting the lid delicately and taking her seat on the stool.

Hannah smiled at the sight. “Miss Lavorre, are you going to play for us?” She left the two men behind, standing at Jester’s side. “Would you like me to turn the pages of the sheet music?”

“Oh, I won’t need that,” said Jester, grinning wickedly. “Let me show you.”

Summoning the experience gathered from her childhood piano lessons, three in total completed without disaster or teacher storming from the Chateau, she began to play. Beautiful cacophony, without rhyme or reason. George and Mr Widogast kept up their conversation. She tickled the ivories as hard as she could, clashing more keys whenever Mr Widogast opened his mouth. His fervent glances became more and more frustrated.

Hannah, who had been leaning very close to Jester before the music had started, now stood halfway across the room.

“That is quite something, Jester!” she cried over the noise.

“Thank you, Hannah.”

George and Widogast shared a parting nod. Whatever business Mr Widogast had come to conduct was done with. Either that or Jester had successfully driven him away.

As Mr Widogast exited the room, George piped up, “Miss Lavorre, I will never cease to be amazed by the accomplishments of women.”

Jester shot George a look but, when he winked in reply, she could not help but giggle. Her mood was incurably high throughout dinner. Not even her father’s insistence on referring to her as ‘Miss Lavorre.’ Though Mr Dosal's presence killed all hope for discussion of the Nip, Hannah pulled Jester into a tight hug before leaving with a whispered promise of written correspondence. 

* * *

Her spirits fuelled a restlessness. It would be late, she knew, before she found it in her to fall asleep. Instead she stayed up reading one of her old romance novels. Just as Lord Howl had reached the final button in his quest to strip for Guinevere, there was a gentle knock at Jester’s bedroom door. Such a gentle knock that Jester could not be entirely certain she had not fabricated it.

Reaching for her bedside candle, Jester climbed out from beneath her sheets. Pushing her door open a crack, she saw the outline of a man just down the hall. She lifted the candle a little and caught her father’s face. There was a solemn expression upon it, and he gave a jerk of his head before disappearing.

Curious and befuddled, Jester grabbed a shawl and made her way through the dark house. On the bottom floor, at the end of the long corridor, her father’s office had its door flung wide open, spilling lamplight.

She rushed towards it.

“Good Evening,” he greeted. She had not expected her arrival to be a surprise, but his sudden speaking caused her to startle. Mr Dosal sat hunched over his desk, no papers in sight. Two glasses of wine were laid out. Both were full. “Please sit.”

Jester might have forgotten she was holding a candle if her father had not lifted it from her grasp the moment that she took her seat. He replaced it, immediately, with one of the wine glasses. She did not drink it.

“Is everything alright?” she asked.

He let out a long sigh before taking an enormous gulp of wine. Finally, he said, “Jester, I am not your father.”

“I’m sorry?”

“That is,” he added hastily, “I have not been a father. I have not earnt the title of father. Regardless of the blood we share. Seeing you today, so bright and full of life. It has reaffirmed what I wished to ignore, that you are lonely here. And that is no one’s fault but mine.”

“Oh.”

“Jester, I only learnt of your existence seven months ago, when your mother wrote me back. It was a shock that I have not quite recovered from.”

“I understand that. I was not expecting to be sent to you so abruptly.”

“And be treated so coldly.”

Jester leaned forwards, putting down her glass. “Why didn’t you come back? She waited for you for so long. She has never loved another.”

Her father gave a pained smile and shook his head. “I was never the man your mother deserved. Not even in my most innocent youth. I believed that, to earn the right to marry her, I had to make a fortune. I had to have a house, like this house, and a reputation. I told her that I would earn all of this. It was not as easy as I imagined. I fell into… nasty work. Nothing legal brought as much revenue. I should have given it all up and returned on my knees to beg your mother to forgive me. Ask her if she could take me as I was.” He broke off to swallow the rest of his wine. “But I grew arrogant in my success. I believed that the impossible might somehow be achieved. Though I had failed Marion, for years, and never given her the home I promised, I believed that I could win her back with this.” He gestured to the room at large. “I am not an especially ostentatious man. And I am certainly not a country gentleman. I simply thought… well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.”

“You thought she would be impressed?”

“Foolish, I know. And my failures were greater than I could have ever imagined. I was forced to let go of a dream that had kept me burning, no matter how faintly, for almost thirty years. More than that, I was forced to confront you.” Jester blinked back tears. “I have missed so much. I have a daughter and I,” he choked on the remainder of his sentence and it was lost.

“You could make up for it. You could spend time with me.”

“How am I to play the role of father when I have, in every sense of the word, failed to be one?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said simply. “I forgive you.”

“I do not deserve forgiveness. Least of all from you.”

“But you have it anyway. And I’m going to call you father.”

“Alright,” he said, a smile ghosting the corner of his lips.

“And I would really love it if we could play cards or croquet together sometime.”

“I would love that too.”

She mirrored his faint smile, feeling somehow sadder than ever before, within the walls of the Myriad. Blinking back tears, she got to her feet.

“See you tomorrow, father,” she whispered.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jester.”

She closed the door gently behind her, so consumed by her own thoughts that she did not notice, right away, that she was not alone in the corridor. If she had known, she would have held in her tears for a little longer. When she looked up, tears glistening on her round cheeks, she saw Mr Widogast hovering at the door to his own office. He looked down immediately, fumbling with the handle.

“Mr Widogast,” she greeted with a curtsey, allowing her voice to break.

He did not reply. Nor did he manage to figure out the door handle until she was halfway up the stairs. The delayed sound of the slam did not satisfy her as much as she would have liked it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!
> 
> please kudos/comment if you enjoyed this chapter! or yell at me on tumblr/twitter @dorcasdeadowes


	7. Larson, Smuggling, and Secret-Keeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to my beautiful and wonderful beta @oftennot

“Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken.” – Jane Austen, Emma

* * *

“You reveal your cards too quickly.”

“This is when we reveal them!”

“Not your hand, Jester. The cards up your sleeve. You need to hold onto them for when it’s really going to fuck with your opponent.” Jester let out a wicked cackle, leaning back in her chair. Her father shook his head and smiled. “Alright. Let’s try again.”

“I don’t know if I can,” said Jester, tossing her cards across the table. “I’m sure Kitty is terribly lonely without me. She’s been reading all morning.”

“Kitty ought not to be distracted.”

Jester frowned. Never before had she known her father to expect much work from Kitty. “Distracted? From what?”

“From her studies, of course.”

In the week or so she had spent in her father’s spaces, making up for lost time and learning a trick or two, Jester had known Kitty to be drowning in the dullest collection of books known to man. She suspected even Mr Widogast would grow weary if forced to make his way through them.

Carefully, Jester asked, “Of course. Remind me, what is she studying for?”

Her father’s face shifted. It did that. Flickered between sincerity and business. Her heart always flinched when the colder side of him returned. His tongue ran across his teeth as he began collecting the discarded cards.

“Well,” he began with greater caution than Jester had shown, “You know Miss Cree has been very interested in refreshing the studies of her youth.”

“What for?”

“My understanding is that women expand their minds for self-improvement.”

“Is she desperate for a husband or something?”

“Not to my knowledge,” he said, clearing his throat. “But you are correct. We have wasted enough of the day on tricks. Your painting is very nearly finished, is it not? Perhaps you might work on that.”

“Perhaps,” said Jester with tight lips.

But she did not go to the ballroom. Without thinking on it for even a moment, Jester marched to parlour where she knew Kitty would have her nose in some dreary tome. Her purposeful stomps made the rest of the world such a blur that she almost marched into Blude.

“Miss Lavorre,” he said, taking a step back and bowing. “I do apologise.”

She blinked away her rage. “Oh, no. I believe that was entirely my fault."

“I insist on taking equal responsibility at the very least, Miss. But, more importantly, I have two letters here. One is for you and the other for Miss Cree.”

“I’ll make sure she gets it,” said Jester, seizing the letters he offered.

“Many thanks, Miss.”

With another bow, Blude backed away and returned to his duties. Jester gazed down at the two letters. Both of them were in Hannah’s hand. She stared very hard at the one addressed to Kitty. As though, through the power of determination alone, she might learn its contents. After all, if Kitty had a secret goal, Hannah was certain to be in on it.

She was in no rush to see what Hannah had written in her own letter. It was the same each day – a delay to the visit. The climate was not right yet. Supposedly.

Jester looked up. Over her shoulder. There was nobody around. It wouldn’t be the first time she had had to reseal a letter. Her mother’s privacy was respected without question, but open season on governesses lasted the whole year. She looked over her shoulder once more.

If she stole away to her room right away, then she could get away with it. All she needed to do was lock her bedroom door and use her nails to pry the seal open. Hannah had not even used a fancy seal. She could recreate it easily.

Sighing, Jester pushed on towards the parlour.

“Kitty?” she called.

Kitty was curled up on the chair furthest from the door. Beside her were a pile of books, each one thicker than the last. In her hands was a heavy blue one with something written in French on the spine.

“Jester!” she greeted brightly, marking her page, and setting it aside before standing. Eyeing the letters in Jester’s clutches, she said, “From Hannah?”

“I believe so.”

Jester did not know why she was playing coy with the facts. Hannah had written every single day since her last visit, over a week ago, and never once was there any doubt in recognising her elegant loops.

Kitty held out her hand for the letter and Jester did not withhold it, though the temptation was strong. Perhaps she might have held it ransom and forced Kitty to reveal all of her secret intentions. But Kitty was her friend and, save for her father, the only person at the Myriad who ever seemed pleased to see her.

Kitty’s letter was, as always, pages long. Jester’s felt lighter. Turning the first page over, Kitty sank back down into her chair. Without much alternative, Jester opened her own.

“My Dear Jester,

Spying eyes have sought alternative views.

To clarify, this phrase is understood by all of those in your father’s employ to mean, “The law has moved on.” Mr Dosal would have never allowed me to go unpunished should I have endangered the reputation and life of his only daughter. But now, it is safe to come. Write to me at once of your intended visiting day and time. I will be here.”

That was the extent of the letter. Kitty was still reading hers.

Uncertain what to do, Jester turned on her heel and began marching to and fro, from wall to wall. She scoured the page for subtleties. Clues even. Any indication of what she was to expect at the Nip. For the time being, she pushed aside Kitty’s secrets and thought only of the inn down the road.

* * *

Jester was in the habit of lying, but never to a parent. Just as with letters, her mother was the respected exception. As Jester looked at her father over dinner that evening, she did not know which category he ought to fall into. It would not do to share her plans with Kitty at her shoulder anyway. But when Kitty retired for the night, Jester did not follow suit. Instead, she crept to her father’s office and rapped on the door.

“Yes?”

“It’s me,” she called back in a stage whisper.

“The door is open.”

Jester burst into the room. “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” he replied with a ghost of a smile. “How might I help you?”

Hovering partway between the door and desk, she said, “I want to go to the Evening Nip.”

His smile slipped and his back straightened. “Whatever for?”

“I’ve heard it’s wonderful fun. And I suppose I’m curious. I have seen almost nothing of your business.”

“Yes, that is by design. You know that nothing I do is legal. What use is there in risking your neck along with the rest of us?”

“But father!” she cried, rushing to take a seat, “Hannah tells me it’s safe right now. Nobody is watching. And I know you’re too clever to do anything recklessly.”

He let out a joyless laugh. “I have done many reckless things.”

“But you don’t anymore because you’re very old and wise.”

“I’m not that old, young lady.”

“And I’m not that young, old man.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. Silence fell. After an aching minute, he said, “Well, I’m certain it is not within my power to stop you. I would rather you not go, but I am under no illusion of you needing my permission. Just… be safe.”

“I’m always safe.”

“Jester.”

“I’ll be safe. I promise.”

* * *

Had Jester had her way, she would have dragged Kitty from the Myriad at first light.

“I promise, Jester,” said Kitty over a bleary-eyed breakfast, “Not a soul will be awake at the Nip for hours. If you want to see anything interesting, we must wait for evening.”

Evening did not fall quickly. Kitty buried her nose in books while Jester paced. From painting to sewing to reading over Kitty’s shoulder. After an early dinner, Jester practically ran from the house and leapt into a carriage. There was little light and no noise at all emitting from the inn upon their arrival.

“It’s still early,” said Kitty. “Let us find Hannah.”

When they entered the inn, there was no one to be seen, save for the bartender.

“Drinks?” he asked, eyeing Jester specifically.

“We come bearing many gifts,” said Kitty.

The bartender nodded in Jester’s direction. “Even that one?”

She waved. Kitty stared with determination and, after emitting a low growl, the bartender wandered over to a back door. Kitty urged Jester to follow.

Once inside what appeared to be a storeroom, the door to it closed behind them, the bartender pushed aside a shelf of wine. A dark cavern yawned beyond.

Jester let out a little gasp and gripped Kitty’s arm. “It’s just like a Radcliffe novel.”

“I’ve never read one,” said Kitty.

“Oh, they’re so good, Kitty! There’s always a secret tunnel or a secret sibling or even a secret ghost.”

“Sounds fascinating,” she replied with a vain attempt at false interest.

Jester pouted along the remainder of the cavern, unable to fully enjoy it. Their journey took a gentle decline, and they twisted and turned until their location was a mystery. All Jester knew was that they were below. Her ears twitched at the growing sound of voices. After a final turn and the push of a door, the true Evening Nip was revealed – a great, wide room with a full bar, walls lined with tables and chairs, and even a corner full of instruments.

A few of the chairs and tables were occupied. Jester recognised almost every face.

“Miss Lavorre!” cried Miss Sheed from behind the bar.

To her right, Dweez and Mr Keyes raised their mugs in greeting, with Mr Keyes adding, “Beautiful ladies! It’s an honour.”

“Good evening, Mr Keyes,” said Kitty, all business. “Do you know where Miss Therad is.”

Mr Keyes sighed. “She does her best to hide from me, but I’ll get her in the end, won’t I?” He nudged Dweez who, by way of reply, let out a spluttering cough.

“Wonderful.”

The bartender retreated, the door closing behind them. Jester felt the sudden snapping of an invisible leash and ran forwards, left, right, back. To every nook and cranny.

“Jester!” cried Kitty. She was ignored.

Those who knew her gave her a quick greeting and answered whatever babbling questions spilled from her mouth before something else caught her attention. Those who did not know her merely watched in suspicion and amusement. There were a handful of locked doors, one unlocked which contained a sink and a bucket. Peering through the keyholes of the others, she saw only darkness.

“Jester!” came another cry. Hannah’s voice this time. Jester spun around and saw Hannah emerging from the same passage herself and Kitty had entered through. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Exploring!”

“Well, come with me! I’ll show you where the real party is… before the real party starts here. We’ve got a few hours to kill. Kitty?”

“I’ll stay behind, I think,” said Kitty, seating herself at one of the empty tables and retrieving a small bible from the pocket of her skirt.

Hannah shrugged. “Suit yourself. Come, Jester dear.”

Jester linked arms with her and was guided directly towards one of the locked doors. Pulled a small brass key from her own skirt pocket, Hannah had it open in a second. She locked it behind them before pocketing it again.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit of a walk,” said Hannah, grabbing a torch from the wall and striking a match. Just like that, Jester was in a Radcliffe novel again.

“How much of a walk? Where are we going? Does this lead to a castle?”

“An hour’s round trip. We’re going to see the business side of things. And no, unfortunately none of the secret passages lead to a castle. Although, I’m sure your father would be open to the suggestion.”

“Can you tell me what the business is now? Or is it a surprise? You know, don’t tell me. I want to see it for myself.”

“Miss Lavorre,” sighed Hannah with amusement. “You are quite something.”

“Something good I hope?”

“Oh, most definitely.”

As they walked further underground, and farther away from the Nip, Hannah aired grievances about her co-workers. Her brothers received the most complaints, but Mr Keyes was not far behind. In fact, it did not seem anyone was safe, save for Kitty, Jester’s father and, curiously, Mr Widogast.

If Jester was not still so cross with him, she might have asked for a story about him. But she was not in the mood for that man. She did not know if she would ever be.

After what must have been half an hour, the tunnel became another locked door. Hannah pulled a second key out of the pocket, silver this time, and fumbled with it for a second.

“Here, let me,” said Jester, taking the torch off of her hands.

As Hannah unlocked, Jester spun around and pretended she was alone, discovering the passage by herself. If she squinted, the torchlight flickered out in wisps of ghostly spirits. For a split second. Until the door rattled and she whipped back around to the stench of farm.

“Come,” beckoned Hannah.

They exited the tunnel and were hit with the full force of the stench. Alongside it, however, was a fresh breeze. They were outside. Or close to it. Wind whistled through wooden slats and windows. A stable.

“Oh,” breathed Jester. “Is this it?”

“This is the place.” Hannah placed the torch in an empty sconce. “This is where the money is made.”

Jester’s eyes darted around looking for prisoners or jewels. Something fantastical. All she saw were horses. “You sell horses?” she asked, trying to hide her disappointment.

“After we steal them.” Hannah shot her a look. “What did you expect?”

“Something a little… wilder.”

Hannah threw her head back with a barking laugh. “Very few things are as wild as horses. Here, come look at this beauty.”

Jester followed Hannah to the stall on the far end of the stable. Within stood a towering steed – chestnut save for its white nose. Hannah held out her hand to stroke the noble creature.

“Does he have a name?”

“Probably. We don’t tend to ask the owners before we take them, though.”

“And is this what you all do? Sell and steal horses?”

“Some of us steal horses. Some of us sell horses. Some of us control the briberies or fiddle the books. If Louis is good for one thing, it’s forging papers to legitimise our sales. Some of us make side deals that have nothing to do with horses, depending on particular talents. Mostly, it’s horses, though.”

“What’s your special talent?”

“Mostly the bribery. Or blackmailing. I’m good with secrets. I suppose I have one of those faces that fools are inclined to trust.”

“You keep all of the secrets?”

“Most of them.”

“Do you keep Kitty’s secret?”

Hannah gave Jester a long, curious look. “You’ll have to be more specific. Dear Kitty is a rather tough nut to crack.”

“Do you know what she is studying for?”

Hannah faltered. Only slightly. If Jester had not been watching her so closely, she would have likely blinked and missed it.

Composed once more, Hannah said, “Kitty has long had ambitions of returning to polite society.”

“Back to a nunnery?” she prompted. “Or wherever it was she ran from.”

“I don’t think so. But certainly away from here.” Jester’s eyes followed the gentle strokes of Hannah’s hand against the nose of the steed. Though her voice was steady as she spoke, there were tremors at her fingertips. “We all speak of grandeur, don’t we? I don’t know if any of us will ever find a better life than this. Still, if any of us have a chance…” she sighed. “Kitty’s soul is too good for this line of work.”

“It’s not really that bad, is it?” asked Jester. She looked into the steed’s big brown eyes.

Hannah gave her a disbelieving look. “They hang you for stealing one horse. We’ve stolen hundreds.”

“Really?”

“It’s Grand Larson. Among other things.”

Jester shrugged. She knew the phrase and saw a noose tighten around them. A distant concern. She went back to watching Hannah’s shaking hand and said, “Shall we go back?”

“That is an excellent idea. We ought to return to hard drink and loud music.”

“Hannah, I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, my dear! I am always in the mood for drinking and dancing.” She gave Jester a dazzling grin. It was a haunting mirror. Jester grinned back. Both women knew very well that it was a false happiness they performed, but neither had the nerve to admit to it.

Jester swallowed down all the guilt she felt at bringing up the subject of Kitty’s studies. She would revisit that bitter flavour later. When she was alone. And learn to bite her tongue.

* * *

They made the journey back in a silence broken only by the distant rumblings of conversation and Hannah’s promised pounding music. The backroom opened into a vibrancy Jester had never seen before. The Chateau had had its fair share of wild nights, but there had never been a night like this. The Nip was packed to each of its corners, men and women brushing shoulders, sharing cups. A band bellowed from the other side of the bar – piano, violin, cello, and guitar. No harp melodies or even singing. Jester let out a laugh of pure joy and clapped her hand to her mouth. It was one of the most beautiful scenes she had ever seen.

“Miss Lavorre!”

Jester’s gaze darted to the source of her name and found a beaming George. Neither his jacket nor his cravat were anywhere to be seen.

“Mr Therad,” she replied brightly. “So formal?”

“For you, Miss. Always.”

“What on earth is going on here? Is it always so busy?”

“Not always. But if we’re lucky. Where is my sister?”

Jester looked over her shoulder. Hannah had vanished. “I have no idea.”

“No matter. Come dance!”

George tugged on Jester’s gloveless hand and pulled her deeper into the crowd. There was no space to dance properly, but he spun her under his arm for a few minutes until he caught the eyes of another strapping young man across the room.

“Sorry, Miss. Duty calls,” he said. “Louis!” Louis, hunched over the bar with pen and paper in hand, snapped his head up. “Miss Lavorre needs a partner.”

Seeing Louis huff and puff and roll his eyes, Jester stammered, “No, it’s quite alright.”

Louis stuffed his papers inside his jacket and, upon reaching Jester, gave her a low bow. Uncertain what else she might do; she gave a quick curtsey.

“Where are your gloves?” he asked.

“Do we really need them here?” said Jester, glancing around at the bare arms all around. “All silly formalities seem inconsequential.”

“Silly you may believe them, but formalities are the backbone of society. I am afraid we cannot dance tonight.”

“Oh, no,” said Jester. “Are you sure? That is such a shame.”

“Bring your gloves next time.”

As Louis spun on his boot heel and marched back to the bar, Jester began to laugh. Across the room, George smirked at her.

It did not prove too much of a nuisance not having a dance partner as the musicians went on break quite soon after. Jester spent the remainder of the last song searching for either Hannah or Kitty. Neither were anywhere to be found.

Frustrated and lonely, she snuck over to the abandoned instruments. After a quick glance around, she sat down at the vacant piano. Jester fumbled for a second before finding a tune. Then, for a further second, she attempted to play properly. It was no kinder on the ears than her purposeful cacophonies. Frustrated and a little embarrassed, she abandoned seriousness and fell into silliness.

It was a version of a song she had once learnt but it was at once too slow and too quick and full of wrong notes. Quicker. Ham-fisted. She grinned as a shadow cast itself over her and picked up the pace of her playing. A throat was cleared, and a single silver coin was placed on the top of the piano. At the metallic click, Jester’s head shot up.

The imagined pianist dissipated, the dust of him reforming as Mr Widogast. Her breath caught in her chest and her fingers stilled. He was dressed as primly and properly as ever.

He said nothing. Only turned away. As he did, the pianist did return. The two men almost collided, but Mr Widogast was quick on his feet, it seemed, when there was a chance at social missteps.

Looking straight past him, the pianist said to Jester, “I told you not to touch my piano.”

“I was just keeping it warm for you, sir!” she replied sweetly.

Mr Widogast cleared his throat again and jerked his head just enough so that she could see his face in profile. “The tip is for the lady,” he said before walking on and into the heaving crowd.

Jester’s mouth hung open slightly. Her fingers still hovered over the keys.

“Miss,” came the pianist’s voice, right beside her. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

Shaking her head loose of the rising fog, Jester brought down her hands with a crash.

“Miss!”

Jester gave one last flourish, then got to her feet.

“Thank you,” said the pianist, sounding angrier than he did grateful.

With a wink, Jester snatched the coin Mr Widogast had left for her. Behind her, she heard the rest of the band pick up their instruments. After a moment, music flooded the inn once more. The crowd had somewhat thinned, allowing for a proper dance floor.

It was there that Jester saw Hannah and Kitty, waltzing to a tune with a 4/4-time signature. Hannah was laughing.

* * *

Though the sun had risen by the time they stumbled out of the inn, the light was a dull grey and the air itself felt thick, still. As though it had yet to properly wake. Jester went to stifle a yawn and failed, her jaw unhinging and swallowing the morning air. It felt fresher on her tongue than her cheeks.

Kitty gave Jester a weak smile. If Jester had had the energy, she might have returned it. Instead she said, “Kitty, what are you studying for?”

The smile shifted to a heavy sigh.

“You don’t have to tell me, but you should know I won’t judge you.”

Kitty brought her thumb and forefinger up to her eyes to catch tears that had only just begun to fall. “Forgive me,” she said. “I think it’s the lack of sleep.”

“Kitty,” she said softly.

“Do not be sorry for asking. I ought to have been honest. With everyone. Your father knows, of course. It is his connections which promise to be my salvation.”

“And what is your salvation?”

“It has been my dream, for years now, to become a governess. I could teach. I could raise children, something I would not have the chance to do otherwise.”

“Why not?”

“I have long given up on finding security in partnership. Earning my own income has been so… freeing. But this is not the life for me. I left the Nip for the Myriad so I might concentrate on my studies. Away from the noise.”

“And Hannah?”

“She does not want me to leave. She would certainly try to keep me distracted.”

Jester reached down and squeezed Kitty’s hand. “None of us want you to go. But if it would make you happy, then I think you should do it.”

“Thank you, Jester. You are a true friend.”

“But you could be happy here too.”

“Jester-”

“Not that I’m telling you to stay!”

“I should hope not.”

“I just want you to know that you can stay. If you change your mind. And if that nobody would think ill of you for it.”

Kitty said nothing, but squeezed Jester’s hand in return.

* * *

The morning mist began to break and through it, she saw a familiar figure. She did not think over her decision before leaping to her feet and crying out, “Mr Widogast!”

He startled in his usual way and she had to smile.

“Mr Widogast! Might I have a word?”

He glanced around as though she might be speaking to someone else, regardless of the fact that she had spoken his name twice. When he saw that they were alone on the sprawling grass, he began to make his way through the remaining mist to stand before her. At a reasonable distance of course.

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

“No. Well, some things are always the matter, but that is not why I called you over.” He bowed his head and scratched the back of his neck. The guilt she had swallowed earlier rose up. “I only wanted to… apologise. For my outburst the other week and for my behaviour towards you ever since. It was childish.”

“No,” he breathed. “No. I was the one at fault. Your anger was understandable. I know that I did not come across well. Whatever my intention was, it was lost, and I offended.”

His head was still bowed, and he looked so small in that moment, so vulnerable, that it broke her heart just a little.

She said, “I believe we have gotten off to a rather bad start. A few of them, in fact.”

“You could say that,” he replied. She saw a slight and pained smile on his pale face. “But, again, the fault lies with me.”

“You cannot take all the blame. Didn’t your mother ever tell you to share?”

His slight smile twitched, threatening to widen. “You are quite right. She would be greatly disappointed in my conduct. I have not even asked you if you enjoyed your time at the Evening Nip.”

“And I have not even thanked you properly for your patronage.”

“You are rather skilled on the piano.”

“I play terribly.”

“And you play terribly so well.”

She laughed and his head raised a fraction, giving her a better view of his almost smile.

“Perhaps,” she said, “We ought to start anew. Then, we might forgive one another for all past slights and become friends.”

He glanced up at a place somewhere close to her face. “If that is what you would like, Miss Lavorre.”

“You don’t want to be my friend?” she asked.

“I did not say that.”

“Then I will not twist your words again. Still, you seem apprehensive.”

“I am not the most sociable of men.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I’ve always been able to make friends with just about anyone.”

“Then far be it from me to try to stop you, Miss.”

A rather tense moment of silence passed before he said, “I should go. I have rather a lot of work to do.”

“Selling horses,” said Jester knowingly.

Mr Widogast looked around in a wild panic. “Do not speak of our business so openly,” he whispered.

“Right. I forgot. Hannah tried to explain how severe stealing horses is.”

“Miss Lavorre.” His voice grew desperate.

“Very well. I will not tease you any longer. You are discharged.”

“I thank you.”

She almost argued back that he did not need to thank her, that he was not her servant, but that slight smile was back. Was he teasing her? He turned his back to her before she could decipher him any further.

* * *

Caleb did not know what it was about Miss Lavorre which managed to alter the course of his mind. Whatever methodical thoughts he had been entertaining before she had called out were now lost.

Once in the soft darkness of his own office, he pinched his brow between thumb and forefinger. The customer who wished to buy the prize steed. He needed to be contacted.

Sighing, he opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out some blank paper. Miss Lavorre’s voice pestered him as he did so. He paused. Instead of closing the drawer immediately, he rummaged to the bottom until he found a letter written and sealed long ago. Addressed to a small village in a country he had long accepted he would never set foot in again.

He sighed again and, filling the drawer back up until the letter was no longer visible, he slammed it closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!!!
> 
> please kudos/comment if you enjoyed <3


	8. By Candlelight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always thank you to @oftennot my beta angela

“I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.” – Jane Austen, Letters

* * *

Mr Caleb Widogast was not a sociable creature and never had been. Of course, Mr Widogast was a creature only three years old. His predecessor, a Mr Ermendrud, had possessed a wildly different attitude towards company. Solitude was preferable to the company of the dim-witted, and almost every person Mr Ermendrud had the displeasure of meeting seemed dim-witted in comparison to himself. The few he deemed worthy, however, were kept close. Treasured even. Mr Widogast, too, struggled to find his equal. He had made the acquaintance of many a terrible person while in Mr Dosal’s employ, yet not a single one was terrible enough. If Mr Ermendrud had considered the world unworthy of his time, then Mr Widogast considered himself unworthy of the world.

It was both better and easier to keep to his own company.

If any one had known Mr Ermendrud, they would never have suspected him to share a mind or body with Mr Widogast. Though one might look twice at his sparkling blue eyes and attempt to place them in their memory, the second look would diminish any suspicion of familiarity.

When Mr Ermendrud had died with fire before his eyes, the fire within them had fizzled. The phoenix that was Mr Widogast rubbed his tired eyes after hours of pouring over ink and paper with only candlelight for guidance. He kept his tired eyes trained upon any view but the face of who he spoke with. He forced his tired eyes to remain wide and dry when self-pitying tears threatened to fall.

Those treacherous tears began to worm their way into Mr Widogast’s lashes before he blinked them back with practiced professionalism. He glanced up and saw his door was shut. He glanced down and saw the drawer was shut.

Getting to his feet, he paced between the walls of his small office. Work needed doing, but he had not slept for almost two days and it was clearly beginning to affect his usually sharp mind. He reached a wall and turned to keep pacing. The jerky movement made him lightheaded. He resigned himself to sleep. At least for an hour or two.

On his way to his bedroom, passing Miss Lavorre’s door, he could have sworn he heard her laughing from inside. He had neither the energy nor the interest to care if it was at his expense. So long as she no longer bore him ill then she was free to mock him to her heart’s content. In fact, as he climbed beneath his sheets, still half dressed in his shirt and trousers, he nursed a small yet burgeoning hope. That after their early morning conversation, he might never have to concern himself with Miss Lavorre again.

Two hours passed. Then four. Then twelve. Caleb did not wake until afternoon had long come and evening was well on its way. He blinked away his bleariness and wiped the drool from his chin, dressing carefully before shambling over to the window to confirm his hunch. He had wasted the day. Never mind, he thought furiously, buttoning his jacket. He would simply work through the night.

As he ventured into the corridor, all thoughts of Miss Lavorre had dissipated. His mind was on the books; the sleep he would have to sacrifice to make up for the day’s indulgence. Secure in his plans, he walked a little taller. These were the only circumstances under which Caleb felt truly comfortable in himself. In his body. His arms swung at his side. This was the closest he would ever get, he knew, to the unabashed joy he saw in his fellows. This was his equivalent of laughing as he rolled down the slope behind the Myriad.

Work began without hesitation. He was brought his dinner to eat at his desk, as usual, and picked at it lazily until it grew cold. Night fell, followed quickly by morning. He took a final bite from his plate and thought nothing of how unpleasant it tasted. If he continued his work at such a fine pace then he would be certain of sleeping again by midnight. No interruptions. That was when the door to his office flew open.

His head snapped up. Half-expecting either breakfast or Mr Dosal, he fumbled at the sight of Miss Lavorre. Brazen and backlit.

“Why is it always so dark in here?” she asked, inviting herself in. “Doesn’t it hurt your eyes?”

He stood to greet her. “Miss Lavorre. Can I help you with something?”

“Kitty’s reading and father’s working,” she said simply. He stared for a moment in a vain attempt to figure out what on earth that could have to do with him. “Do you want to play cards with me?”

Far too confused to swallow her request, he did not immediately reply.

“Not in here though,” she pressed on. “It’s far too dark. Unless you let me open the curtains.”

“If you would like the curtains open, I can open them for you.”

“That would be wonderful! Then we could play right here, and you wouldn’t even have to leave your office.”

He let out a breathy half-laugh. “I’m not much of a card player.”

She was already storming towards his window and grabbing fistfuls of his curtains. “That’s okay,” she said, bathing the room in midday sun. “We don’t have to play cards.” Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, she finished, “We can just talk. Or try croquet again. Or I could show you my painting! It’s coming along very nicely. Do you want to see my painting, Mr Widogast?”

Her eyes pierced the back of his neck and he turned to see her standing, backlit once more, staring expectantly. Caleb suddenly found himself quite lost in the usually familiar and comforting haven of his office. Beyond her shoulder, he could see the slope which she so frequently delighted in rolling down.

He took a beat to adjust to this new landscape, the detailed map and infallible compass of his mind never failing him. Smiling, he replied, “I would love to see your painting.”

Although Miss Lavorre took to most accomplishments with a proud lack of talent, this certainly did not apply to her artistry. He had to admit that he had expected some degree of silliness to her piece, but standing beside her in the ballroom, he saw nothing but the fruit of serious labour.

“This is wonderful,” he breathed. “Have you always been an artist?”

“Since I was a child,” she said proudly, stepping closer to the wall. “I don’t know if it’s entirely accurate. The painting, I mean. My memory of Bath is mostly from my bedroom window.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“How so?”

“Forgive me. I assumed you had been running wild for as long as you’re been holding a paintbrush.”

“Well, I might have spent most of my time in my room, but when I was out of it, I ran rather wild through the halls.”

She continued to gaze upon her work and Caleb looked at her curiously. The daylight flooding through the wide windows of the ballroom danced in her braided, black hair. So black it was almost blue.

“I don’t mean to pry,” he began delicately, “But what kept you to your room so often?”

“Oh, my mother’s business. It’s rather unfashionable for a courtesan to have a daughter, you know?”

“But when the business was done, she spent her time in the rooms with you?”

“When she could. She worked tirelessly for the two of us to continue living well,” there was a sad note to her voice. “I miss her.”

“She sounds devoted to you.”

“She really is.”

“Will you see her soon?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know. What I want is for her to come here, to reunite with father, and to be happy with him forever.”

“That is a beautiful dream.”

At that, Miss Lavorre glanced over her shoulder at him and, without a hint of irony, said, “It’s not a dream, Mr Widogast. I will make it happen.”

“I suppose… I suppose that anything is possible. And I cannot speak for your father’s heart for he has never been one to wear it on his sleeve.”

“That’s probably why the two of you get along so well.”

Caleb smiled bleakly. “That is also very possible.”

Silence descended and blanketed the space between them for close to a minute. He would have broken it, excused himself and returned to his office, but there was a thoughtful furrow between her brows that kept him in place.

“Mr Widogast,” she said finally. “Would you like to know a secret?”

“That depends on the secret.”

“It’s a very good one.”

“Then I would be delighted to know it.”

Her brow parted with a wicked grin, leaving him a little concerned over what exactly he had just agreed to be privy to.

“Come closer,” she said. “It’s part of the painting.” He obeyed as best he could while keeping a proper distance between their bodies. “No, you have to come closer than that!” He took one dangerous step and declared, inwardly, that he would move no further. She seemed satisfied, however. Either that or she had sensed his silent declaration. “It’s just here.” She pointed to a small balcony near the bottom right corner of the painting before shifting away so he might get a proper look.

Mr Widogast bowed his head and looked hard before having to stifle a snort. Upon that balcony was painted a man, his belly hanging low and his grey hair thinning. The only item of clothing he wore was a beige corset.

“You know,” he said, trying to even the humour in his voice, “I half expected the whole wall to be covered in images like this.”

“It’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s certainly lifelike.”

“It is. It’s just what he looks like.”

“Corset and all?”

“On one occasion.”

“And you are familiar with this man? And his public nudity?”

“Unfortunately, he was nude on his own estate in the country. The servants did get quite the show, though.” Miss Lavorre let out a sigh. “I suppose I could call it my greatest trick… or my greatest mistake. It’s the reason I am here and not with my mother right now.”

Mr Widogast tried to puzzle together the pieces she offered, to no avail. “I am afraid I don’t entirely understand.”

“He will be my mother’s husband by the end of the year. I wanted to put a stop to it, or at the very least make the process as unpleasant for him as possible. But his temper is rather unrestrained. It was either hide away here or marry whichever man he chose for me.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be,” she said, straightening up. “I might miss my mother, but that does not mean I am unhappy here. I would not trade knowing my father for anything and…” her eyes fell upon him as that wicked grin of hers returned. “I find my entertainment wherever I go.”

Caleb felt, not for the first time, a little afraid of Miss Lavorre. Composing himself, he replied, “Naturally. You do delight in teasing.”

She laughed as if in agreement before Miss Cree’s voice came echoing into the ballroom. “Jester!” she called.

“In here, Kitty!”

Miss Cree ducked her head around the room and, upon seeing Miss Lavorre, she rushed in. “I have been looking for you.” Then, as though she had only just noticed him, she said, “Oh, Mr Widogast. I hope I am not interrupting.”

“Far from it,” he said.

Miss Lavorre nodded. “I am sure I have kept Mr Widogast from his work for long enough.”

Miss Cree said, “I only wished to invite you on a walk around the grounds, Jester. My eyes have had quite enough of words for the time being. You are more than welcome to join us, Mr Widogast.”

Spinning and smiling, Miss Lavorre set her expectant eyes upon him once more.

“You are quite right, Miss Lavorre,” he said, mouth drying ever so slightly. “I must return to my work.” Miss Cree did a very bad job of pretending to be disappointed while Miss Lavorre gave what seemed to be a genuine pout. “You will have to save your teasing for another time.”

He had half forgotten the open curtains in his office and was so focused on picking up his pen once more that he did not immediately remember to close them. It was only when he began to write that he felt something was off.

Growing up without a budget for candles had trained him to work in the dark. Though there had been a brief reprieve from these circumstances during his school years, having to hide in the woods or in some damp basement had reinforced his childhood habits. He took no pleasure in burning his employer’s money when daylight was so freely available, but Mr Dosal had recognized that brightness tended to slow Caleb’s hand and insisted on providing as many candles as he required.

He got to his feet and plunged himself back into comfortable darkness.

* * *

Mr Widogast might have taken less issue with Miss Lavorre’s undying need for attention if it did not so frequently come at the expense of his pride. She had taken to bursting into his office whenever Miss Cree or Mr Dosal were occupied. The routine was entering without knocking, complaining of the darkness, opening the curtains, and then reminding Caleb of the superior bathing facilities that the Myriad offered.

“I keep myself clean,” he said for what must have been the fifth time that week.

“Then the problem is that you don’t ever let any air into this room. It smells like something died in here.”

“Can I help you, Miss Lavorre?”

Though he kept asking that question, she never did offer a response to it.

“What are you working on?” she asked instead.

“I was actually just reading."

“What are you reading, then? Is it very boring?”

“You would likely think so.”

She did not accept this brush off for what it was and hovered over his shoulder. Tensing up, he dropped the book on the desk.

“Oh!” she cried, leaning past him, and almost brushing his jacket with the sleeve of her dress. “It’s the one you keep by the side of your bed. Haven’t you finished it yet?”

Without moving a muscle, he said, “Miss Lavorre, I hope you are not still snooping in my room.”

“Don’t worry about that.” She seized the tome and circled to take the chair opposite. He doubted that she noticed his breathing ease. “I think I found everything of interest in the first few days. Why are you reading about plants? Are you going to smuggle plants now?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“So, why are you reading it?”

“I enjoy learning,” he said carefully.

It was not a lie, but it was certainly evasion.

Caleb had cared nothing for working the earth, for planting, for growing, all throughout his childhood. While his father had insisted on training his only son in the family business of farming, Caleb knew he was destined for far greater things. A fact he had all too often thrown in his father’s face.

Now that he was a different man without any prospects of greatness, he felt his fingers itch for the dirt. There was a patch in the grounds which Mr Dosal had offered Caleb as his own. When he built up the courage, he would plant green beans. In honour of the father he would never see again.

None of this, of course, was Miss Lavorre’s business, and he was certain that if she got wind of his true intentions then she would twist it into an insult.

_ “Mr Widogast,”  _ he imagined, her accent thick and dripping with mockery _ , “It was bad enough when you were trapped in that stale office all day long but now you reek of manure.” _

There was no way of knowing if she believed his simple explanation, but she did not press him further. She simply gave a shrug and reached for his pen, flipping to the back page of the book, and began to scribble.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“It’s a secret. Get back to work.”

He pushed down the burning desire to rip the book from her hands and searched about the top drawer of his desk for a spare pen. By the time he was successful, Miss Lavorre had finished her task. She dropped the book down with a sigh, saying, “Well, if you’re going to be boring, I’ll find something else to do,” and left.

Once the door was shut behind her, he gingerly lifted the book and turned to the back page. There he found a crudely drawn, but surprisingly accurate picture of his own face. Though, even he had to admit, she had taken great liberty with the frown lines.

* * *

Mercifully, the Therads returned from their business in London, and set about filling the Myriad with music and laughter. Mr Dosal had readily accepted Caleb’s reasons for not joining them for dinner and with Miss Lavorre otherwise occupied, it seemed that his evening might be spent productively. In fact, he was so very productive, that the only work he had left to do was to procure a signature from Louis. 

With a sigh, he gathered his minute reserve of courage and ventured towards the sounds of merriment. A few heads turned when he entered the parlour. The Therads had brought with them Mr Keyes, Mr Denton, Miss Sheed, and the Swedes. He was quietly grateful for the crowd and the ease with which he tended to get lost in them. After seeing that it was only Mr Widogast, almost everyone returned to their conversations without any hesitation. Only Miss Lavorre’s gaze remained fixed on his back as he walked towards Louis.

Clearing his throat, he said, “Excuse me.”

Louis raised his heavy brows, breaking off halfway through speaking rather intently with his bored looking brother.

“I don’t mean to disturb,” Caleb continued quickly. “I just need you to forge a quick signature.”

“Alright then.”

Caleb tried not to fumble as he handed over the fake certificate and pen. Louis completed his task with a flourish and returned the paper and pen to Caleb’s hands without giving him a second look. Before the transaction was complete, Louis was speaking to his brother once more, “And what exactly makes you think that I was not serious in my intentions?”

“You never are,” replied George.

“Miss Harlow is unlike any other woman I have ever met and that you would tear me from her side-”

George let out a laugh, “Every woman you meet seems to be unlike any other you have met before. I am beginning to think that perhaps all women are unique.”

“If that is true, then Miss Harlow is the most unique of them all.”

Caleb interjected in a low voice, “That is a logical fallacy.”

Louis whipped around in his chair to give a glare, but Caleb had taken it upon himself to leave with mumbled thanks before further incurring the youngest Therad’s wrath. Miss Lavorre continued to watch him but said nothing whatsoever. And why should she? Surrounded by company, Caleb could be left to his solitude. That was how he preferred it.

He did not doubt for a moment that he had seen the last of company for the night and was proved swiftly wrong. Miss Lavorre pushed the door of his office open as she usually did. It was too dark, however, for her to go about her usual routine of curtain yanking.

“You should light more candles,” she said by way of greeting.

“Miss Lavorre,” he replied in a tired voice. “Did you need something?”

“Why do you always think I need something?”

“You have a parlour full of friends. You hardly need to be bothering me.”

Her face fell and he felt a twisted stab of guilt. “I only meant to ask you if you would join us. You left in such a hurry; I was worried you thought you weren’t welcome.”

In that moment he felt he might be beginning to like Miss Lavorre.

“But, really, Mr Widogast, you can’t keep working in the dark. You already look like this,” she mimicked a heavy frown and pursed lips. “Most of the time. With the damage you’re doing to your eyes, I’m afraid that scowl will be incurable.”

_ Slowly _ , he corrected himself. He was ever so slowly beginning to like her.

“Thank you for the invitation, Miss Lavorre. I am grateful for it. Truly. But I am more comfortable with my books, and the darkness.”

“Then, I won’t bother you further.”

“Enjoy your evening, Miss Lavorre.”

“And you yours, Mr Widogast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! please kudos/comment if you enjoyed <3


	9. The Importance of Being Frivolous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello bees! should I be writing for class? yes. did I write this chapter instead? also yes.
> 
> please enjoy <3

“To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love” – Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

* * *

Jester had barely sat down to breakfast with Kitty before her father burst into the room.

“Father!” she greeted brightly. “I didn’t think you were joining us. Don’t you have to sell that big horse?”

“The big horse,” he replied, a grin almost as wicked as Jester’s spreading across his face, “Is sold. We’re rich.”

Jester scrunched up her nose. “Aren’t we already rich?”

“We act like it, but now we actually have the coin to back it up. Until we spend it frivolously, of course.”

Kitty smiled as she raised her tea to her lips and, before taking a sip, she said, “Heaven forbid you save it.”

Ignoring Kitty’s statement, Mr Dosal pulled out the far chair and slumped down at the table with a careless kind of grace. “Jester, I have big plans for this money and I’m going to need your help.”

“Of course!” she cried, dropping her knife and shifting to the very edge of her seat.

“This is the first and most vital step in establishing myself as a gentleman, my dear.” Jester waited with bated breath, eyes wide and ready. “We are going to… throw a ball.”

Excitement tremored in her cheeks, numbing her for a second. Kitty spoke before she could, “Sir, have we not already had a ball?”

Her father waved a dismissive hand. “That was nothing. This is for other rich people to attend and admire our opulence. We will be reputable members of society for the night, every one of us, and eventually we will be reputable every hour of the day. At least to the public eye. Miss Cree, I swear, by the end of the year you will have landed yourself a job in the home of one of the finest families in the country. You will live like a lady in all but name.”

“I have faith, Sir.”

Finding her voice, Jester said, “We need new dresses.”

“Of course. New dresses, new table settings, perhaps even a new chandelier for the ballroom. I trust you to know best,” said her father, giving her a warm smile.

* * *

Chasing the idea of a huge party, a proper ball, she wandered down the darkest corridor and pushed open the door of Mr Widogast’s study. He startled in his seat, as unsuspecting as ever.

“Miss Lavorre,” he greeted. “Can I help you?”

She grinned so widely that she felt it in her neck and brow. “Yes, Mr Widogast. You can help me.”

“Oh,” he said.

Her grin fell into a pointed pout. “Do you not want to help me?”

“I did not say that.”

“Great!” Her grin returned. “Then you will do me a favour?”

“Of course.”

“Come to the party.”

“Ah.” She watched him push away from his desk a little and press long, pale fingers to the bridge of his nose. With closed eyes and a heavy sigh, he asked, “And how, Miss Lavorre, would that be of any help to you?”

“Oh, it would make me very happy.”

“To see me squirm amongst company?”

She laughed. “Perhaps.”

“Well, Miss Lavorre,” he said, releasing his nose and opening his startlingly blue eyes. “If you require my presence then I might drop in for a moment.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said sombrely. “You will not regret this.”

“I’m sure.”

* * *

Mr Dosal’s entire entourage were summoned to the Myriad to assist with preparations for the party. The invitation list was extended each day, acquaintances of someone or other added in haste to ensure for as grand a display as possible.

Jester could not help but glance at the list every so often with a sense of wonder. Of course, the majority of them would be stuffy or old or married or all three, but there might be a fine young man looking to fall in love. There might even be two. Playing off of two suitors would be a better road to romance, not to mention entertaining. Three, she decided, was too many. Three suitors would spread her resources too thin and she would likely fall for none of them.

In between fantasises, Jester placed orders for clothing and furniture, and distracted everyone else from their work. Mr Widogast made no appearance at any of the party planning sessions, but Jester was soothed by his promise of attending the ball itself. In the meantime, she had plenty of other people to poke fun at.

George offered his assistance in setting up the ballroom, moving chairs and tables. Louis did not offer his assistance but was forced into it anyway. He grumbled all the while of the danger heavy lifting posed to his artists’ hands and best jacket.

“You could always take the jacket off,” said George.

“And my hands?” Louis snapped back.

“I can take those off for you too, if you like.”

Jester cackled with laughter and received a wink and a glare from George and Louis, respectively.

The Swedes finished the job in a flash when they arrived a moment later, much to Louis’ delight. He hunched over in a far corner and began hastily writing something Jester could only assume was bad poetry.

Kitty had been emphatic that she did not need a new dress, but Jester ordered a simple yet elegant gown in pale pink just in case she changed her mind.

“I can’t accept this,” said Kitty, lightly stroking the fine fabric with fingers that clearly did not wish to relinquish. “It’s too much.”

Jester sighed. “It’s a shame. It’s too small for me, so I’ll have to throw it away.”

At Kitty’s wide eyes, Jester smiled.

“You, Miss Lavorre, are incorrigible.”

“I try.”

They got ready together, just like how Jester had helped her mother dress up for her performances. Once their dresses were on, they took turns doing each other’s hair. The dress she had ordered for herself was a soft powder blue. The sleeves and skirt were a little frillier than trends dictated, but the tailors were more than happy to accept the extra money to add the requested details.

Finally, Jester pulled her kid skin gloves right up to her elbow. They bunched up a little at the top, but Kitty’s did too. Perhaps that was the English fashion. Marion always wore them tight. She tried not to miss her mother’s gloves and focused, instead, on the dancing they would allow. If Louis was scared of a scandal beneath the Nip, then a polite gentleman at a polite party would likely also decline her as a partner if she dared to show the skin of her hands.

“Shall we go down?” asked Kitty.

“Not yet,” said Jester, sitting down at her dressing table and admiring the braiding of her hair.

Determined to be fashionably late, the plunking and jolly sounds of ballroom dances was pounding through her bedroom floor before Jester allowed her and Kitty to go downstairs.

The doors to the ballroom were wide open, finely dressed figures spilling into the hall with whispers and family matters. One young woman who could not have been much older than Jester herself, was arguing with her mother in law but carrying voices.

“I don’t want to dance with him, Mother,” she said bitterly. “He is vulgar and, God, you should have smelt his breath. I can’t stomach another toothless grin from that decaying mouth.”

“What does it matter when he’s rich? You’re too old to be fussy over suitors.”

Jester snorted, certain that she knew exactly which man they spoke of, and even more certain that Mr Keyes had as much money to his name as he had teeth. The daughter caught Jester’s eye and looked flustered. With a wink of comfort, Jester linked her arm with Kitty’s and made their grand entrance.

Her eyes hungrily devoured the faces of those already on the dance floor. At the far end of the line were the Swedes, smiling but barely as they joined hands. Hannah stood beside them, unfortunate enough to be partnered with Mr Keyes in the absence of the uninterested spinster in the hallway. All the other faces were unfamiliar. Some pairs seemed already married, like the Swedes. Others seemed to be disinterested young women, fallen prey to the horde of older gentleman that her father had invited.

She spied, though, at least a handful of promising candidates. They too, were all claimed by the dance floor. The ratio was stacked against her, but she was determined to dance. And to dance with at least one fine young man. It would be an interesting story to tell her mother.

Kitty and Jester hovered at the edge of the dance floor.

“Should we not find somewhere to sit?” asked Kitty.

“I want the dancers to see me,” said Jester patiently. “If I’m hidden in the back then maybe no one will ask me.”

“George and Louis are indisposed. One of them would be happy to dance with you, I’m sure.”

“Maybe later. I want to dance with a handsome stranger first.”

“Then perhaps you might ask your father to introduce you?”

“Oh. Is that necessary?”

“In polite society? Usually.”

Jester pouted but took Kitty’s words on faith and marched over to the table her Father commanded. Kitty followed quietly. Upon arrival, Jester sunk into an excessively deep curtsey.

“Father,” she said in an equally excessive formal tone of voice. “What a beautiful party.”

She could tell that he was trying very hard not to laugh and this made it very difficult for her to suppress her own laughter. Formality was impossible to take seriously at the best of times, but with the gin flowing and the dance floor crowded, it seemed so ridiculous to not be silly and bright rather than demure and dour.

“Friends,” said Mr Dosal, getting to his feet. “This is my daughter. Miss Dosal.”

He introduced each man at the table and Jester forgot each name as quickly as it was spoken. They all wore very fine clothing and she was sure they were important contacts, but they did not seem the sort of people she wanted to spend the evening with.

“It’s wonderful to meet you all,” she said. “And this is my dear friend, Miss Cree.”

“A pleasure,” said one of the men as Kitty gave a curtsey.

Something about his voice pulled a wire in Jester’s mind. She gave him a second look and knew, then, that she had seen him before. His skull shone with the thinning of his ash brown hair and his cheeks were sunken. She tilted her head to take him in better and wished that she had listened properly to his name. Whoever he was, he had certainly stepped foot inside the Chateau and, undoubtedly, beneath her mother’s sheets.

She tried to recall the secrets she had heard him spill in the parlour beneath Nadine’s floorboards, but was interrupted by one of the other men.

“ _ Miss _ Dosal and  _ Miss  _ Cree,” he said. “I find it hard to believe that two young women as lovely as yourselves are still unmarried.”

Kitty spoke up. “Actually, sir, I am in training to be a governess.”

“And my daughter,” cut in Mr Dosal, “Will marry when she wishes.”

Jester gave him a small smile which she hoped conveyed her gratitude. The way he tipped his glass towards her before downing it told her that he understood.

The man was undeterred. “Well, if she wishes, she should know that my son is in the market for a wife.”

“In the market?” repeated Jester. “How unromantic.”

“Oh, Miss Dosal,” said Kitty with a forced laugh. “The marriage market is a well-established turn of phrase.”

“She is right, though,” agreed the man with the eligible son. “It is not a terribly romantic term and that is because marriage is not an affair of romance. It is a business transaction.”

“In the case of my daughter,” said Mr Dosal through gritted teeth, “Marriage is an affair of romance. Her mother and I have both seen to that.”

“Of course. A mother’s dying wishes and all that,” he replied with little evidence that he cared much for Jester’s mother’s death bed, fictional or no. “But I should still like to introduce you to my son, I believe this dance is coming to an end. Let me fetch him now.”

At the eager father’s departure, Jester’s own father got to his feet and, tugging on her elbow, whispered, “It’s rather irritating, I know, but at least they think we’re gentry.”

Jester’s blood turned cold at that. It had not occurred to her that she might fall into a tragic romance, one where her suitor believes her to be far wealthier than she actually is.

Her alarm must have shone through her expression because her father added, hastily, “Of course, we will have no trouble keeping up the act should you wish. That is the goal, here, after all. To become very rich and important. I’ve found that, with enough coin in your purse, nobody asks all that many questions about where it comes from.”

“And, I suppose, if you have an upper hand.” At her father’s raised eyebrow, she said, in as quiet a voice as she could muster, “Remind me. Who is the man sitting in the middle? The one with the saggy cheeks?”

“That is Viscount Peaton. Why do you ask?”

“Because I have seen him before. At the Chateau.”

Though a fraction of her had hoped to inspire a flash of jealousy, she was pleased to see her father’s eyes light up.

“Did you, now?” he breathed.

“Yes. And I made a habit of eavesdropping on mother’s clients. If you give me a day, I’m sure I’ll be able to recall whatever he spilled.”

“If not, we can always speak to his wife.”

“Viscount Peaton,” she said to herself. “I should try to remember that.”

“And this man bringing his son over is Lord Desmond. Now, I would never push you towards marriage, but if you could weasel some dirt out of the Captain, I would be the proudest father in England.”

Jester did not get a chance to ask who the Captain was as Lord Desmond had returned. Beside him stood a golden-haired man in his early thirties with a very handsome face and an even handsomer coat.

“Miss Dosal,” said the Lord. “Might I introduce my son, Captain Desmond.”

The Captain had a crooked smile as he pressed his lips to Jester’s glove. “Miss Dosal,” he greeted. “Would you honour me with the next dance?”

After one dance with the Captain, Jester thought she might fall wildly in love with him after all. The deep blue of his coat complimented the lighter blue of her dress very nicely, and he held her hand very gently as they stepped to and fro about the floor.

After two dances with him, she had changed her mind entirely. There was nothing he had done wrong. He was, after all, a gentleman and had the manners of one. But he did not once pull her close or whisper something sweet. He smiled crookedly and without passion. It was a shame, she thought, that she had the misfortune of meeting such reserved men. She comforted herself by imagining that the Captain was already in love with someone else, perhaps a forbidden love, and he was only dancing to be polite. It would not do for this to be his honest attempt at courting. Still, she appreciated having a partner on the floor.

The spinning and stepping had sent Jester into a giddy daze. She had half forgotten she was expecting Mr Widogast until, on one of those delightful spins, her head turned to the entrance and she caught a glimpse of his red hair.

Red in her own cheeks, sweat sticking her loose curls to her skin, she smiled and waved at him. He raised a timid hand in response before Jester was pulled back into the dance.

“A suitor?” asked the Captain.

Jester laughed. “Oh, no. That’s just Mr Widogast.”

The Captain frowned as though he did not understand the joke. Which, she supposed, he couldn’t.

Once the song had ended, the Captain politely excused himself and was fast in conversation with another young lady. Jester did not linger on it, rushing over to Mr Widogast without much decorum.

“You came!”

He blinked. “Of course. You requested it.”

“Don’t make it sound like that.”

“How should I make it sound?”

“What on earth happened to make you such a bore?” The question was rhetorical, but Mr Widogast visibly stiffened at it. “Come on,” she said quickly. “Come dance with me.”

She had expected some protest on his part, for him to say that parties were one thing, but dancing was out of the question. He made no complaint. More than that, he did not look disturbed by the prospect. Jester did not know if she had seen him so calm in a social situation.

Although ready to chalk his reaction up to another bizarre mystery in the book of Mr Widogast, she shortly solved this particular puzzle. Mr Widogast had no reserves about dancing because he was a very fine dancer. A very fine dancer indeed.

“When did you learn to dance?” she asked, as they came together.

“When I was younger.”

They parted. They came back together.

Impatient, she pressed, “Did you dance with lots of beautiful women? Were you a cad?”

“Hardly.”

“So, was there one beautiful woman in particular?”

She was teasing as much as she was curious. Regardless of the truth, she had come to expect silence on Mr Widogast’s part.

Once again subverting all expectation, he breathed, “One beautiful woman.”

Her blood was cold again and did not warm for the remainder of their dance. She did not know why the revelation had shocked her so deeply, but she was now forced to picture Mr Widogast in a romantic light. It did not sit quite right with everything else she knew about him. Unless he had lost this woman. Unless that was the cause of his eternal misery.

Dozens of questions begged to be asked and she struggled to pick which to lead with. After a moment, when they came back together, she settled on, “What was her name? Your beautiful woman.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said with a half laugh. Sounding as cold as she felt. “It was a very long time ago.”

His eyes misted over and, she realised, his mind was lost to the past. He was dancing with Jester in this room and dancing with another woman in his memory. In the pit of her stomach was something akin to embarrassment. She did not demand any further dances from Mr Widogast that evening. Not just because he himself did not stay much longer.

* * *

It was the early hours of the morning when the last of the revelry died down. Jester sat between Kitty and Hannah at one of the cleanest tables, each of them having kicked off their shoes. Only Mr Keyes was left, half asleep across from them.

Sighing, Hannah said, “I should get him in a carriage.”

“You’re not staying the night?” asked Jester, snapping up from her slump and sitting upright.

“I didn’t realise I was invited.”

“Of course, you are,” said Kitty.

Hannah gave her a long, hard look. “So, I might stay in your room?”

Very softly, Kitty replied, “Yes.”

“Then I suppose I should make the most of you. Before you run away from us forever for a life of propriety. But first, let me get rid of Keyes.”

Hannah took Mr Keyes by the shoulder and shook him without any tenderness. “Wake up, Keyes,” she cried. “Mr Dosal will have your skin for hide if you throw up on another one of his tablecloths.”

Mr Keyes lifted his head with a groan. “What’s happening?”

“You’re going home?”

“Oh, you are kind, Miss Therad,” he said with a toothless grin. “You’ll accompany an old man to his carriage won’t you.”

“Alright then, Cinderella,” she huffed, helping to heave Mr Keyes out of his seat.

Once they had stumbled from the room, Jester turned her attention on Kitty so they might laugh at Keyes together. Kitty, however, had gone glassy-eyed.

“What’s wrong?” asked Jester softly.

“I didn’t think Hannah knew about my plans.”

For the third time that night, Jester’s blood turned cold. Rather than anxiety or embarrassment, though, this chill was driven by guilt.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I thought if you would have told anyone, then you would have told her.”

And it did seem impossible that Kitty had not spoken to Hannah about her ambitions. Not when they danced together at the Nip and sent one another at least one letter a day.

“I should have,” said Kitty. “No matter. It’s done now.”

Hannah returned to the ballroom with a cry of, “That man is a menace!”

Kitty smiled and so Jester smiled with her.

* * *

Jester could not find the strength to begin the ordeal of unpinning her hair and so climbed under the covers feeling very much like a princess from a storybook. Reaching under her pillow, she pulled out her journal and began to scribble.

She began with Mr Keyes doing a wild dance which ended in a set of false teeth clattering to the floor. Giggling, she moved on to drawing Louis with long gloves and a corset, blushing furiously. Throughout, her fingers itched to sketch Mr Widogast, waltzing rather than dancing longways. She had captured his strong chin and sad eyes before she knew exactly what picture she was trying to capture. A strange melancholy settle over her as she outlined a faceless woman for him to hold in his arms. She had to wonder if the loss of this mystery woman was the source of Mr Widogast’s sombre disposition. If so, would it be possible to reunite the two of them? If anyone could make it happen, she thought, it would be her. Not to mention, it would be wonderful practice for the reunion of her parents.

Lost to thought, she did not hear the first knock on her door. A second knock came, a little more forceful.

“Jester, are you awake?” Hannah’s voice whispered desperately.

“Come in.”

Though it was clear that Jester was wide awake from the strength of her voice, Hannah pushed open the door so gently that it barely creaked. When she stepped into the light, her lip was trembling and bitten raw.

Jester tossed her journal aside without a care and rushed to meet her.

“What’s happened? What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Hannah gave a wistful smile. “Can we sit down?”

“Of course,” said Jester, guiding Hannah to the bed and scrambling to sit across from her. Hannah let out a rattled breath. “You can tell me anything, you know?”

“I know.” Her smile twitched and Jester felt compelled to reach out and squeeze her hands. Seemingly settled by this, Hannah took a deep breath and whispered, “Mr Keyes has asked me to marry him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for sticking with me through this slow ass burn! please kudos/comment if you enjoyed I eagerly await any and all validation <3


	10. In Want of a Husband

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken so long! I was consumed by my masters and then spent a month suffering from writing fatigue. Thank you for waiting and I hope you enjoy this chapter <3
> 
> as always thank you to by wonderful beta @oftennot

_ “I am not romantic, you know. I never was. I ask only a comfortable home.” – Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice _

* * *

Jester blinked.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “Mr Keyes asked you to marry him? Just now? Half drunk?”

“No,” said Hannah softly. “No. He made a formal offer last week, but tonight he made it clear that I must give him an answer soon or lose him forever.”

“Then lose him!”

Hannah sucked in her bottom lip and bit down. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

“What could be complicated about it? He is old and crude and he has no teeth! I know you don’t love him, and I know that he has nothing to offer you.”

“Unfortunately, there is much he has to offer me. Mr Keyes, you see, is a very wealthy man. In theory at least.”

“Mr Keyes? Wealthy? If that’s true, then why has he not bought himself some new teeth?”

With a slight smile, Hannah said, “As I said, it is only a theoretical wealth. He is the disgraced youngest son of some Earl – cut from his inheritance for gambling and being generally drunk and unpleasant. But the family has grown rather desperate in recent years. There have been far less grandchildren than they desired, so Keyes has been promised a warm welcome back into the upper echelons of society on the condition that he finds a young wife. I admit, I was a little flattered to still be considered ‘young.’”

Jester scrunched up her face in distaste. Hannah was only a handful of years her senior and far younger, still, than her own mother – men still fell over their feet for an hour alone with the Ruby of the Sea.

“I know it isn’t a romantic prospect,” said Hannah quickly, noting Jester’s expression. “But I have known for a very long time that whatever life I was to lead, it would not be a romantic one.”

Jester met her eye. “What about Kitty?”

Hannah gave a tearful laugh before pushing herself off of the bed to pace the room.

“Kitty.” she said. “Kitty is leaving. Kitty is too clever to linger in this place, and if I am to take anything from her it will be that wisdom. My brothers are fools. George will never stay serious for long enough to find a wife, and Louis will never relinquish his romantic ideals. If I do not make a good match, then we are forced to fend for ourselves forever.”

“You have done a rather good job so far.”

“So far. For now. Every day I worry that we are at our end or that one of my brothers will be caught due to their carelessness and be hung for our crimes.”

“Is that likely?”

“I would be a fool to not think it possible.”

Jester scrambled for a solution – anything to dry Hannah’s rapidly falling tears. She sprung up and seized Hannah’s hands. “What if I married one of your brothers? Isn’t that what you wanted? When we first met, you told me that you wanted me to marry into your family. I know that my father’s work isn’t safe, but surely there would be less danger to their lives with the full weight of our estate on their side?”

Hannah did smile, though sadly, and said, “My dear Jester. I know your heart. You must not marry for anything less than the truest of loves. I do not believe that those who adore you would allow you to injure yourself. I know that I won’t.”

Trapped once more by the futility of fortune. Jester could have saved her mother from Sharpe; she could save Hannah from Keyes. With enough time, she could bear children for Kitty to govern, and save her as well.

But she was too well loved, it seemed. Too precious to be traded in. Her heart broke for it. As grateful as she knew she ought to be, she wanted to bite at her binds. What use was the promise of happiness in the face of so much sorrow?

Jaw clenched, Hannah’s hands still tight in her own, she whispered a vow, “I will find a way. I will fix it all.”

“You are sweet.”

Hannah was brushing her off, but Jester refused to hear it. She had not felt fuelled by so much purpose since the day she had sent Lord Sharpe onto his balcony.

“Choose not to believe me,” she said. “But whatever comes to pass, the people who truly love one another will be together. As it should be.”

* * *

Sleep did not come easily to Jester that night. Much like attempting to force her head under water, she could only manage what felt like a few moments at a time before she started, catching her breath. While Hannah and Kitty slept late, Jester picked at her breakfast plate at the break of dawn. Even the sweetest of pastries could not soften the sour taste in her mouth.

She was even distracted as she penned a letter to her mother. With every footstep beyond the dining room, she froze, trying to sound out the pattern and match them to the pair of feet who made them. But it was only Blude. Back and forth. Even Lauren was still down in the kitchen with the rest of the staff, ready to assist with breakfast when the rest of the house awoke.

Her anxious hands shook a little across the page, but the penmanship stayed clear enough.

_ Dear Mother, _

_ We had the most amazing party last night. I think you would have loved it. And it would have been even more amazing if you had been there to sing. There was a man there - Viscount Peaton. I had to ask father to remind me of his name, but I knew his face almost right away. He was one of your clients, was he not? Can you recall any particularly scandalous secrets he might have shared? I am racking my brain but coming up short beyond the fact that he visited you while he certainly had a wife somewhere else in the country. I would love to have something more personal and humiliating on the man. Not for any particular reason, of course. Just for my own amusement. I might whisper it into his ear as I pass. Just to see him squirm. Nothing more. I am, after all, very well behaved.  _

_ Father proved himself a spectacular party planner. I’m sure he would have impressed even you. I know you must tire of hearing me sing his praises by now, so I will not be coy about the matter. I have decided to be direct in all things. You are fortunate I am writing this morning and not yesterday because I only made this decision an hour ago. So, I will say it clearly. I want you to leave Sharpe and come here to be with me and Father. Whatever you think of Father, he is a better man than Sharpe by far. You don’t need to marry Father. You could take it slow. There are lots of empty rooms here. Or you could sleep in my room! Either way, there is really no need for you to marry Sharpe. _

_ I hope to see you at the Myriad soon. _

_ Your loving daughter Jester _

She wondered if she should have eased into the second paragraph, but her attention was quickly diverted by a set of footsteps, too light to be Blude and too heavy to be Lauren. Jester dropped her pen and darted into the hall, searching desperately for her father, coming face to face with Mr Widogast instead. At the sight of her leaping into his path, Mr Widogast jumped backwards.

“Oh,” she said, with little effort to conceal her disappointment. Mr Widogast, to his credit, gave no sign of offence. He simply composed his posture, hands behind his back and greeted her with a gentle bow of his head. “Have you seen my father?” she pressed.

“Not this morning,” he said. “I believe he is still sleeping.”

“Everyone is still sleeping,” she hissed, folding her arms firmly across her chest.

“Is something the matter, Miss Lavorre?”

“Yes, but I don’t think you can help me. Unless… are you secretly very rich?”

He blinked at her. “Ah,” he began with half a smile. “I have my secrets, Miss Lavorre, but wealth is certainly not amongst them.”

“Well, then you are no use to me.”

“You require money?”

“I require a wealthy husband who isn’t completely terrible and has all of his teeth.”

At that, Mr Widogast’s face turned such a vivid shade of red that it clashed beautifully with his ginger hair. Jester clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“Oh, no,” she stammered, giggling through her words. “Not for me. I have a friend who has to marry a disgusting old man and I thought, well, if you were rich, you’d be a better option.”

Clearing his throat, he replied, “You are very generous.” The red did not fade from his cheeks and he kept his eyes firmly upon his own shoes. “Forgive me. You were quite right. I am of no use to you.”

As he backed away, she hurried to prevent him from escaping. “Wait,” she said. “That was unworthy of me. You are very useful.”

“You know, I would prefer it if we ended our conversation here.”

“Oh, no. I have upset you.”

“You have not upset me, Miss Lavorre. Merely made me uncomfortable. That is no great feat, believe me.”

“Mr Widogast,” she pleaded, taking a step forward for every step he took backwards towards his office. “Come and sit with me. I have been eating all alone and I am going crazy waiting for the house to awake.”

“I am afraid I have too much work to do,” he said, reaching his door at last and clutching the handle as though it might anchor him to sanity. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

Although greatly amused, Jester had not been alleviated of her worries. The house felt stuffy and every noise set her up for disappointment. She longed for fresh grass. She returned to the breakfast table just long enough to collect her letter and give it to Blude for delivery.

The summer sun was warm on her face even at such an early hour. When she flung herself down the slope behind the house, the dew had almost dried. She ventured back up the slope and rolled down several more times before exhaustion took over. Too bone-tired to lift herself, Jester flipped onto her back and draped her arm across her forehead to shield her eyes from the bright sun. She intended to watch the clouds and enjoy the warmth for a few minutes while she regained her strength, but with a blink she was on her front once more, drooling on her forearm and the grass below.

“Miss Lavorre.”

She pushed herself up and saw Blude, lit from behind by the sun like a messenger from God.

“Sorry to wake you,” he said, “But there is a letter for you. I would have waited, but it has been marked as urgent.”

Jester leapt to her feet and practically tore the letter from his hands. It was impossible that she had slept for so long that her mother had not only received her letter but replied already. Still, she expected to see Marion Lavorre’s curling calligraphy across the paper. Instead, she saw Nadine’s small, neat handwriting. Her heart fell into the pit of her stomach as she ripped the letter free of its seal and began to read. What if something had happened to her mother? What could Nadine possibly have to say that was not full of terrible news? She had not written to her once during Jester’s stay at the Myriad.

Her eyes moved fast, skimming for the tragic punchline. When she reached the final sentence, she realised she had taken in very little of what came before it.

“Do not fret,” it finished, “I will fetch you after the wedding.”

Jester flipped the letter over and read again, properly this time.

_ Jester, _

_ I am sorry to not have written you earlier or under more pleasant circumstances. I have had very little time for anything but tending to your mother these days. She misses you terribly and Sharpe’s manor is not a comforting home. It was somewhat better when he was in London, but he returned last night full of pomp and pride. He is ready, it seems, to make your mother his wife. More than this, he is determined that you be there to witness the ceremony. Your mother, of course, does not want you anywhere near the man until the marriage is finalised. She fears that he might threaten to terminate the engagement if you do not marry his chosen suitor. It is better, she believes, if you remain hidden from him. Marrying you off will be less of a priority if you are not here to bother him. _

_ You are aware of all this, of course. I would not write you to tell you what you already know. There is another problem. Sharpe, though less bothered by you when you are away, is still irked by what you and your mother might discuss in your letters. He has taken to watching over her shoulder while she writes and has even dictated a letter in which she is to invite you to the wedding. You must decline. This is Sharpe’s request, not your mother’s. I would also advise you to be discreet in any letters you send yourself. I do not trust that he will not read any letters which come Marion’s way. Any insult to his character or attempts to undermine him will not do any of us any favours. I know you are a master of subtlety when it suits you. _

_ Remember to decline the invitation (with a heartfelt excuse and an expression of great sorrow). And do not fret. I will fetch you after the wedding. _

She glanced up. Blude stood with his head bowed, waiting to be dismissed.

“Blude,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Do you remember the letter I gave you earlier?”

“I do indeed. It was a mere hour ago.”

“Did you send it already?”

“With great haste, Miss.”

“Oh no.”

“I am sorry. I was under the impression you wanted it sent as soon as possible.”

“I did. I did. You are right. You did a good job. I just… there’s no way to get it back is there?”

“Not unless you are up for a chase.”

Jester screwed up her face. She could ride a horse. Well, she could sit on a horse without falling out of the saddle. She did not think it was enough to catch a messenger.

“Alright,” she said. “Thank you, Blude. That will be all.”

As he turned to leave, she rushed past him and back into the house. Her heart had not risen from her stomach. Would anyone be awake yet? If she could not retrieve the letter, then perhaps she could sob in someone’s arms. The house, however, seemed as still as it had when she had left it just an hour before. Hopeless and frantic, she ran to Mr Widogast’s office and pounded on the door until the man himself opened the door looking curious.

“Is everything alright, Miss Lavorre?” he asked. “You do not usually knock.”

“Everything is terrible! Hannah is marrying a man with no teeth and I have made a very big mistake.”

“What mistake?”

Jester turned away from the dreary interior of the dark office and stumbled back towards the foyer. She did not know where she was heading or why she was still walking, but her feet refused to be still.

“Miss Lavorre!” called Mr Widogast, following her at a distance.

In the foyer, she began to pace. He watched her from the shadows, just by the bottom of the staircase.

She spoke rapidly, “I sent a letter that I should not have sent, but I didn’t know! I didn’t know he would be reading it! And I was so rude about him! What if he punishes my mother for it? Or what if he comes here and drags me back to marry one of his friends.”

“Try to breathe,” he said softly.

Jester paused her pacing and looked at him. She had gone lightheaded in her rambling and sobbing. Breathing was advisable, she supposed, but it did nothing to solve her problems.

He gave her a tight smile and asked, “When did you send this letter?”

“About an hour ago.”

He nodded curtly just as footsteps finally pounded on the stairs. Jester turned to see Kitty rushing down, Hannah not far behind her.

Hannah pleaded, “Kitty, please. Do not be cross with me.”

“I am not cross,” Kitty replied, not slowing her pace. “I am simply starving. Miss Lavorre!” she greeted Jester with a bright smile, but the slip into formality did not go unnoticed. “Have we missed breakfast?”

“I’m sure the kitchen will make something for you,” said Jester cautiously, glancing between the women. Kitty’s hair was not pinned back as masterfully as usual. The odd strand hung loose. Hannah’s hair was down entirely, and she was barefoot, still in a night dress she must have borrowed from Kitty. It cut off just a little too short.

“You ought to get dressed,” said Kitty, stopping at Jester’s side to look up at Hannah. “We must go and share the good news with our friends at the Nip.”

Dishevelled and red-eyed, Hannah leaned over the bannister. She bit down upon her bottom lip, worrying it between her teeth for a moment before, finally, nodding.

“What on earth is going on?” came the booming voice of Jester’s father from above. He appeared at the top of the staircase and eyed the scene below.

Hannah closed her eyes, hands tight upon the bannister, and said, “I have decided to marry Mr Keyes.”

“You have?” he asked. When no one refuted it, he said, “Well, that is rather jolly news. Kitty, are you off to Labenda now?”

“Once Hannah is ready.”

“Marvellous. We ought to have a party to celebrate.”

At that, Hannah pushed off the bannister and ran upstairs, past a still-bemused Mr Dosal. Everything was happening far too quickly for Jester to seize the reins on the situation. She wanted to offer Kitty some semblance of comfort, but Kitty was already marching to the breakfast room. Jester spun helplessly, searching for a safe landing. Mr Widogast, she noticed, was gone. She did not blame him for slipping away during the chaos, but she would have appreciated an ally.

As Mr Dosal passed her and made towards his office, she hurried to join her father’s pace, hissing, “Father, you cannot allow this.”

“Nonsense. I always welcome a party.”

“Not the party. The marriage.”

He raised an eyebrow but did not reply to her protests until they were inside his office with the door closed behind them.

“Sit,” he said, settling into his own chair. Too restless to obey, she shook her head. “Very well. Stand and tell me what on earth is the matter. I have never seen you so distressed.”

“Father, you cannot let Hannah marry Keyes. She’ll stop working for you if she does. You do not wish to lose her, do you?”

“My employees are free to seek employment elsewhere, to marry who they wish to marry. I am no tyrant.”

“But it cannot be called tyranny if it’s for their own good.”

“Is that so?”

“It shouldn’t be. You ought to ensure that they lead the happiest lives possible. You and Mother are both so set on my happiness that neither of you would let me marry for anything less than love. How can you sit by and watch Hannah break her own heart?”

“My dear,” he said softly. “I am both incapable and unwilling to play father to any person other than you.”

Though his voice was soft, his words sounded final. Jester gave a stern nod in understanding, though understand she did not.

“I am sorry to disappoint you.”

She sniffed, “Don’t be sorry. I was being silly.”

He did not refute nor endorse her statement. Instead he sat in thought, chewing the inside of his cheek. Jester waited as patiently as she could.

“I  _ am _ sorry,” he said finally. “I am sorry for the state of the world. I would like to think that, had I known of you sooner, I might have put my youth to better use. I might have, at the very least, cultivated a home of happy people so that you could thrive amongst them. I find that misery is contagious, and it pains me to see it infect you.”

Jester nodded along with his words, disagreeing with almost every single one.

“Thank you for your time,” she said, reaching behind her for the door handle. “I won’t take up any more.”

* * *

Jester had never been so miserable at a party before. It seemed everyone from the Nip had wormed their way out of the woodwork to partake in the celebrations at the Myriad that evening. It was raucous and wild, and she hated every moment of it. Nothing lifted her spirits. Not beating the Swedes as cards. Not seeing Hannah and Kitty speaking softly, as though things were somewhat mended. It all made her feel queasy, but the dancing was the worst of it. All that spinning. All the laughter from the side-lines.

“Miss Lavorre,” said Louis. She snapped out of it and met his eye. She was about to apologise for being so distracted during their dance, when he continued, “I am glad you remembered your gloves tonight. You are a fine dancer.”

She smiled weakly and tried to be flattered.

Once the song had ended, she mumbled a clumsy excuse. Something about needing fresh air. Louis did not question it and neither did any of the other guests as she stumbled from the intimacy of the parlour and into the still foyer. The emptiness of this room was almost as suffocating as the crowded one she had just escaped.

She did not think much on her decision before acting upon it, walking purposefully down that familiar dark corridor of business. Forgoing knocks, she pushed open the door of Mr Widogast’s office. It was something of a shock to find it empty. Then, when the shock faded, it settled into disappointment. She was truly alone, she realised. There was no room in the Myriad where she might be happy.

She pulled the door closed and wandered back to the foyer. She would not be able to sleep if she retired to her room, and she had no desire to return to the party. Compromising between the two miserable options, Jester slumped down to sit on the stairs, letting her forehead rest against the bannister. Tears began to well in her eyes and so she pulled off her kid gloves so she might better wipe them away.

She did not know how long she sat there. How many minutes passed with her swallowing tears and staring into space. The noises from the parlour became a distant, constant noise. Like rain against a window. Trapping her inside for fear of catching a fever. She squeezed her eyes closed in the hope that this might bring her peace. Perhaps she would fall asleep here and wake to a more pleasant world. But sleep did not come, and the slamming of a door jerked her eyes open and her head up.

There, standing in the entrance of the Myriad, stood Mr Widogast. His hair had fallen loose, his face and clothes splattered with mud, and his eyes displayed a weariness equal to that which Jester felt. Still, she was desperately pleased to see him.

“Mr Widogast!” she cried with a grin, leaping up.

“Miss Lavorre,” he replied in a shaking voice. He was breathless. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting so long.”

“Waiting? Waiting for what?”

At that, he rushed forwards, holding out his right hand. In it, he held a rather crumpled looking letter.

It was Jester’s turn to be breathless. “Is that my letter?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

With a shrug, he said, “I am a fast rider.”

“Mr Widogast!” she cried, hopping down a single stair so that they might be an equal height. She did not want to hop too close. It would not be fair to tease him with impropriety when he had done her such a kindness. “I cannot believe this.”

While she had no intention of behaving badly with him, having no desire to make him uncomfortable, polite society did not come naturally to Jester. When she reached out to take her letter, she forgot that she had stuffed her gloves into the pocket of her skirt. As her bare fingers brushed against his own, she did not notice the faux pas, nor did she register the sudden shift in Mr Widogast’s disposition. She simply smiled down at the letter, gazing at her own shoddy handwriting with unbridled glee.

“This is…” she trailed off. There were no words sufficient to express her gratitude. But express it she must. “This is wonderful. This is the most wonderful thing anyone has ever done. In all of history.”

Mr Widogast, shoulders tensed, gave a breathy laugh. “It was nothing. Really.”

He would not look at her, but she smiled at him all the same. It was enough, she knew. This would be enough to bless her with a good night’s sleep and sweet dreams.

“Thank you,” she said. “Goodnight, Mr Widogast.”

“Goodnight, Miss Lavorre.”

As she reached the top of the climbing staircase, she gave Mr Widogast one last glance. He was staring firmly at his feet, his knuckles white against the newel. What a funny man, she thought, to be so troubled by conversation. The lady with whom he had danced must have been very special indeed. 

* * *

Caleb refused to watch her go. He stared, instead, at his mud-splattered boots. He must look a mess. Even worse than when he had returned from town and met Miss Lavorre for the first time, catching her with her ear to the floorboards of his bedroom. If his face had burned then, it was nothing compared to the fire ablaze in his right hand. He made a fist with it as if to expel the memory of her skin against his own. Silly, he thought. He was a silly man to be so affected by what was a mere accident of touch. She likely had not even realised it had happened. He unfurled the hand as it continued to burn. He could not stand stupefied at the foot of the stairs all evening. His co-workers would come spilling out, full of drink and merriment. They might not pay him any mind, but he did not dare risk a drawling comment of, “Mr Widogast, what on earth are you doing standing there like a statue?” or worse, an invitation to join the party. He forced his feet to carry him to the sanctuary of his office. He could hide his red-stained cheeks in the darkness and perhaps even lose himself in paperwork. As he sat at his desk and picked up his pen, he prayed that the familiar motion of writing would be a balm for his scorched fingers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'm hoping to update again soon as I intend to work on this fic for nano. Please comment/kudos if you enjoyed! Hearing from you always makes me stupidly happy <3


	11. One Foot in Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> she updated again? already?? doesn't she have a life???
> 
> as always thanks to my beautiful beta oftennot whose support I would fall apart and die without

"Nobody could catch cold by the sea; nobody wanted appetite by the sea; nobody wanted spirits; nobody wanted strength." - Jane Austen, Sanditon

* * *

Though he could recall each of them with perfect clarity, Caleb still struggled to understand the sequence of events which had landed him there. Saltwater spraying in his face; wind whipping so fiercely that he was forced to remove his top hat for fear of losing it. The English coast, he had come to learn, was rarely peaceful.

He turned to Miss Lavorre, arms open and eyes closed at his side. Her skirt and shawl both billowed like sails on a ship.

To be heard, he had to raise his voice to a yell. “Is it everything you imagined?” he asked, squinting to keep the sand at bay.

Miss Lavorre smiled as though she had a wonderful secret, and turned to him, fluttering her eyes open.

“It’s perfect,” she said.

Just then a great gust swept the shoreline, tearing Caleb’s hat from his grip and carrying it away. He took off after it. The wind worked with rather than against him, but he was wary of getting too confident and falling to his knees. Miss Lavorre, it seemed, did not have the same reservations, and quickly overtook him.

No more than an hour must have passed since Caleb had been walking to his office that morning, under the false impression that he had a day’s work ahead. Though it had been Caleb’s misfortune to walk past the open door of the breakfast room at that exact moment, and Miss Lavorre who had extended the invitation. It had been Mr Dosal, really, who had pushed Caleb to go.

“Mr Widogast!” Miss Lavorre had cried, halting his purposeful pace, and pulling him to stand before their breakfast table.

Miss Cree, Miss Therad, and Miss Lavorre were all dressed for the outdoors – jackets, bonnets, and sturdy boots showing beneath the hems of their skirts. Mr Dosal, however, was still in his silk robe.

As he bowed his head in greeting, Miss Lavorre launched into responding to his unasked question.

“We’re going to see the sea! You know, I’ve never seen the sea before. In real life, I mean. I have seen lots of pictures. Do you want to come?”

Miss Therad giggled and Mr Dosal sighed, “Please do. I cannot muster the energy to escort them myself.”

“Do they require escorts?” asked Caleb, fidgeting with the sleeves of his coat behind his back. “I can think of no three young women more capable.”

“Of course, we need an escort,” said Miss Lavorre. Emphatic as she was, it would have been easy to think she believed this to be true. Knowing her, even as little as he did, however, he had become familiar with her stating false truths in order to coax company to her side. She pressed on with equal fervor, “What would we do if a stranger approached us? How would we defend ourselves against a bandit? Really, Mr Widogast, I cannot believe you would not have considered all these things.”

“Leave him be,” said Miss Therad. “If he would prefer to spend the day alone in his stuffy office, then that is his choice. The coast is no more dangerous than town. We can travel alone.”

“Father?” prodded Jester.

Mr Dosal looked between the women and Caleb with weary eyes. Back and forth, until he settled on Caleb. Brow furrowed, he said, “When was the last time you had a day off?”

Caleb opened his mouth to respond, but no date came to mind.

“There we have it,” said Mr Dosal. “Some sea air will do you good. Put some colour into your cheeks.”

And so, Caleb found himself in his employer’s best carriage. The three women sat shoulder to shoulder, while he was welcome to a whole bench for himself. He shuffled to the far side, staring out of the window. It was a vain attempt at making himself invisible in a small space, but he felt more secure with something physical to lean on. Should he need it.

Miss Lavorre took the seat opposite and offered a warm smile. It did nothing to settle his nerves, but he returned her smile with as much warmth as he could muster before turning back to stare at the passing scenery.

He had seen a good number of shorelines in his lifetime, but despite his having been in Norfolk for close to a year, he had not set foot on that particular coast. There had never been the time, for one thing. For another, English shores tended to drive their visitors to chasing down lost hats within moments of arriving.

As Miss Lavorre took the lead in their chase, she called out to where Miss Cree and Miss Therad stood together, letting the waves hit their ankles. “Catch that hat!”

They must have realised quickly that there was no point in attempting to join the race – if it could really be called a race. There was not a moment when it looked as though Caleb might catch up with Miss Lavorre. He gave Miss Cree and Miss Therad a quick wave as he stumbled past. Miss Lavorre, ahead, was gaining. One foot in the sea, one in the air, she leaned forwards and seized the brim of the hat just before it was lost to the channel forever.

Seeing Miss Lavorre proudly waving his hat, Caleb stopped running, and rested his hands on his shins. He was a far better rider than he was a runner.

When Miss Lavorre returned to him, he said, “Thank you,” He was embarrassed by how breathless he sounded. “It seems we are now equal.”

“How so?” she asked, still clutching his hat by the brim. 

He felt his cheeks flush red. He did not want to bring up the previous day’s letter incident. It might come across as boasting.

“I fetched your letter; you fetched my hat,” he said simply.

“Oh, no. We’re not even close to being equal, Mr Widogast. I have only worked off a little of my debt.”

His eyes focused on the place where her gloved fingers toyed with the grey wool of his hat and said, weakly, “There is no debt.”

“Not even a little one?”

The lilt in her voice was teasing and only served to darken the flush in his cheeks. He smiled in spite of it.

“Here,” she said.

When he went to take the hat, she shook her head.

“Bow, please.”

Her accent took a wide circle from the ‘B’ to the ‘W’ and, though skeptical, he found himself obeying. Once he presented her with the top of his head, she gave a giggle and began to place the hat upon him gently before giving it a whack. As though she thought that might keep the wind from stealing it again.

Caleb raised his head, waiting to lose it once more. But the wind had died enough that he did not have to worry about running again any time soon.

“Walk with me,” she said, holding out her arm.

“I think you are supposed to take my arm.”

“Well, give me your arm then!”

Just as before, he found himself powerless to do anything other than obey. Happily, she wound her hand around his elbow and settled it on his forearm.

He expected her to guide them towards Miss Therad and Miss Cree, but she kept on the same course they had taken to chase down the hat. He glanced over his shoulder and, as though reading his mind once more, Miss Lavorre whispered, “I do not want to intrude on them. Whatever time they have is precious.”

“Is this why you insisted on having an escort?”

“I don’t think I would have enjoyed the sea half as much without someone to speak to.”

She tucked her head close when they spoke, likely to ensure she was heard over the roaring wind and waves. Caleb hoped that it was not too obvious that he turned his face, ever so slightly, away.

“You seem unafraid of the sea. I have heard some people have fainted upon seeing it for the first time.”

“Why? It’s only water.”

“But rather a lot of it, no?”

“I suppose. I didn’t expect it to be so windy.”

“I thought it was perfect.”

“It is. Things can be perfect and windy at the same time. Listen, do you mind if I ask you for some advice?”

“Oh, I am not known for my wisdom.”

“You aren’t known for anything, Mr Widogast. You are a man of mystery…” she trailed off with a waver as though mimicking a ghost. “But I need to make a decision and I am not sure which one to make.”

“What is the matter?”

“Well… You remember the letter I sent yesterday? The one you got back for me?”

“I have some recollection.”

“It was a letter for my mother, telling her not to marry this awful Lord.”

“The one with the girdle.”

“Yes! You have a wonderful memory.”

He smiled again, risking a glance her way. She was smiling too, though it did not seem to reach her distant eyes.

She continued, “Just after I sent that letter off, I received news from my old governess, who is staying with my mother. Sharpe has grown even more controlling and he is now reading her letters – the ones she sends and the ones she is sent. I didn’t want her to suffer for anything terrible I said about him. That is why it was so important to get the letter back, and that is why I cannot say we are equal. You did me such a kindness yesterday.”

“I have done much more for lesser causes, believe me.”

“You should save your breath, sir. You will not talk me out of my gratitude.”

They had reached the end of the shoreline. To walk any further they would need to scale a cliffside or swim out against the waves. Miss Lavorre slipped her hand from his arm and stepped into the sea. He watched from behind. Her posture and demeanor did not suggest she was on the verge of leaping into the depths, but he felt it was his responsibility to ensure her safety, nonetheless. The sea was not kind to strangers. While some fainted at the sight of it, he had also heard stories of those who wildly underestimated its vastness.

She turned her head so that he saw her in profile and said, “It makes me feel quite small.”

The rocks to their left and the ebb of the blue-grey waves ahead made for a rather breathtaking view. It terrified and inspired him. Yes, he thought, it made him feel quite small. Though he could not say if the woman before him was bleeding into the scenery.

“Come here,” she beckoned.

He took two strides to stand at her side. The wind had not picked up, but he removed his hat anyway so that he might have something to busy his fingers with. Their eyes met briefly, and they shared small smiles. Then, Jester turned her face back to the sea, and Caleb turned his downwards.

Sea birds squawked in an off-beat harmony with the slow crash of the waves and the somewhat subdued wind. Miss Therad and Miss Cree could be seen, but they did not look any taller than dolls from the distance they stood. It occurred to Caleb that he had never been so completely alone with Miss Lavorre before; never before had there been so little chance of them being overheard. It unnerved him. More than that, it unnerved him that the prospect of a word from her might make him crumble. No thin walls or nosy servants. She was free to say whatever she might wish, and he feared that it would cut him to the core.

Miss Lavorre gave no signs of being similarly bothered as she said, “This is when I ask for your advice.” He held his tongue while she took a breath. He did not believe it was an invitation for an interruption. A moment later, she continued, “My mother is getting married. Soon. I am not supposed to be there for it. She doesn’t want me there. She’s worried what Sharpe might do if he sees me.”

Her voice trembled and she began to sniffle.

“You do not want to miss your mother’s wedding,” he said simply.

“No. Well, yes. But no, that’s not it. I don’t know that I want to watch her marry Sharpe. I just know that if I have any chance of stopping the wedding, I will have to speak to her in person. Is it silly to believe that I could convince her to return here, to the Myriad, to stay with father?”

“It does not sound silly to me at all.”

She sniffled on through a wide smile and said, “I knew you would understand.”

“Me? Why me?”

“I don’t know. But you always seem to.”

He shook his head.

“What about you?” she pressed.

“What _about_ me?”

“Is there a lady who you’d like to come and stay at the Myriad? A lady who you danced with once upon a time?”

Her tone was delicate, but her words were hard on his ears. The hat slipped through his fingers and landed with a small splash. Without hesitation, Miss Lavorre bent down to collect it. Rather than handing it back, or even asking him to bow his head once more, she kept ahold of it. She ran it through her own fingers. He had to wonder if she was nervous.

Caleb cleared his throat and found his voice. “There is a lady who I once loved. Is that what you are asking?”

“Was she the lady you danced with?”

“Yes,” he said, sounding sharper than he had intended.

“I am not trying to upset you.”

“I know.”

“We can talk about something else.”

“It is not a painful memory anymore. You simply took me by surprise.”

“So, can I ask you about her?”

He let out a cold laugh. “There is not much to say.”

“But something happened to pull you apart?”

_A burning carriage flashed before his eyes. Gunshots rang in his ears. “Bren!” she begged._

He shook his head and turned back to Jester. “It became clear that the two of us were on different paths. I could not be the man she required, and the man who I was becoming was one who needed to be alone for a while.”

“Just for a while?”

“Just a while.”

“You are alone very often.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, frowning. “I am not alone now.”

“No. Not now, I suppose,” she trailed off into silent thought. Her lips were pursed, and her brow was furrowed. Caleb was content to wait until she reached whatever conclusion she was winding her way towards. Finally, she said, “Do you think my parents’ paths have diverged too far?”

“I cannot say. But if it would make you happy to have them meet, at the very least, then I do not think there is anything wrong with trying.”

“Alright,” she nodded. “Thank you, Mr Widogast. Really.”

“It was no trouble. I merely offered my opinion.”

“I appreciate it. I believe that I have made my decision. Oh, and here,” she said, passing him the now sea-soaked hat.

He accepted it with a grateful jerk of his head. The new silence that fell between them was almost peaceful as they both turned their attention back to the sea. Miss Lavorre, it became quickly apparent, was not equally satisfied with the slump in conversation.

“It’s strange that people swim in this,” she said.

Caleb glanced at her curiously. It took him a moment to figure out if she was joking. When he decided that she was serious, he said, “Well, it is not always so windy. And the water can feel quite warm after a time.”

“Do you spend much time swimming, Mr Widogast?”

“Not recently. I swam a lot as a child, though that was in a lake. I could spend hours just floating, trying to piece together all of the world’s mysteries inside my young mind.”

“Did you? Piece together the world’s mysteries, I mean.”

“Oh, I did not even get close. In fact, I find the world more confounding every single day.”

“I just find it strange to think of you spending so much time in water. It sounds an awful lot like bathing. I didn’t think you were keen on such things.”

“You know, you have seen me unwashed twice at the most. One of those times was yesterday.”

“I know,” she said, smirking. “Now, I believe my boots are filled with saltwater. It might be time to leave.”

He offered her his elbow and she accepted it gladly. They did not speak again as they wandered back towards Miss Therad and Miss Cree. The two women, once they realised Caleb and Miss Lavorre were encroaching, fell apart and raced to meet them halfway.

“Where did you go?” cried Miss Therad, throwing her arms around Miss Lavorre. “Were you having a romantic tryst?”

Miss Lavorre merely laughed while Caleb’s face burned brightly.

He was not bothered during the journey home. The three women spoke among themselves and he pretended to stare out of the window. He had to assume that Miss Therad had been joking, but he did not want Mr Dosal to get the idea that his right-hand man was attempting to woo his daughter. Caleb was under no illusion that a man such as himself was worthy of Miss Lavorre. He just hoped that he did not have to clarify this.

As they pulled into the driveway of the Myriad, Caleb felt a pair of eyes staring hard at the side of his head. He turned to look, expecting to see Miss Lavorre’s comforting gaze and warm smile. Instead he was greeted by the attention of Hannah Therad. Though he looked away quickly, he could not shake her expression from his vision. There was a degree of calculation to it. And a certain degree of irritation. He did not have the energy to attempt to solve that particular mystery.

Shoving his damp top hat onto his head, Caleb jumped from the carriage before it had completely come to a stop.

* * *

Mr Dosal, though his superior, was a comfortable presence. Caleb understood the dynamic. Knew how to behave. And while Dosal was an avid conversationalist at parties, he also worked quietly. Which was just how Caleb liked to work.

When left uninterrupted, the two men could function with the precision of clockwork. Papers passed between the two without a single smudge of ink. In fact, Mr Widogast was expecting an early night when Miss Lavorre burst into the room.

“Father! Oh, Mr Widogast.”

Miss Lavorre had changed into a fresh gown – yellow and dotted with white flowers. He suffered to acknowledge just how beautifully it suited her.

“I will leave you,” he said quickly, getting to his feet.

“Don’t be silly. You already know what I’m going to say. It’s no secret.”

He would have exited regardless, but she still stood in the doorway. To compromise, he shuffled towards the curtained window and businesses himself with inspecting the spines of the books he knew almost as well as his own.

“What is going on?” asked Mr Dosal.

“Father, I have to leave,” she said quickly. “For a short while. I plan on coming back.”

“Might I ask where you are going?”

“Mother is getting married soon. I would like to be there for it.”

“Of course you would. But… are you certain you will be back? I was under the impression that you were to stay here until after the wedding. At which point you and your mother would be reunited.”

The pain was evident in Mr Dosal’s voice. God, how he wished he could escape that room.

“Do you not want me to come back?” asked Miss Lavorre, her voice breaking.

“My darling!” he cried, getting to his feet, and circling the desk so he might take her hands in his. “If I could live with myself for doing so, I would lock you in your room here and never let you leave. But I would not keep you and your mother apart.”

“I will come back.”

“And you are always welcome to.”

Caleb had faded into the shadows, he knew, but it was not enough. He glanced up to see if he could slip out unnoticed, but father and daughter now blocked the door together. There would be no excusing himself without disrupting their tender exchange. He took another step backwards and felt his ankle hit the wall. Swallowing the pain, he folded his hands and looked away to offer some privacy.

“I will come back,” she repeated solemnly. “I would miss you too much otherwise.”

“My dear.”

Caleb heard the rustling of an embrace and contemplated climbing out of the window.

Her head on her father’s shoulder, Miss Lavorre called his attention back to the room, “You too Mr Widogast!”

He was glad for the shadows and his cheeks flushed. Her father chuckled, pulling her tighter, while Miss Lavorre gave Caleb a wicked grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!
> 
> please kudos/comment if you enjoyed <3


	12. Daughter of the Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience and thank you as always to @oftennot for being my wonderful beta reader

“The distance is nothing when one has a motive,” – Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

* * *

It was barely dawn when Jester was bundled into her father’s sturdiest carriage. It lacked any ostentatious details on the outside, but the inside was plush, and the seats cushioned her behind very nicely. She had made sure not to pack everything she owned. It was important to leave a reminder of her presence, and her return. While she was taking the majority of her best dresses, she only took one book with her and absolutely none of her paints. Amongst her dresses, she had hidden a purse containing a small fortune which her father had dropped into her hand that morning, “Just in case.”

She recognized the face of her driver but could not name him even when pressed. He was young. Almost too young. She could not imagine he had seen his twentieth birthday yet. His pock-marked face was dotted with a feeble attempt at facial hair.

When he spoke, however, it was with a man’s voice.

“Are you quite comfortable, miss?” he asked, closing the carriage door for her.

“I’m very comfortable.”

“Glad to hear it. Are you alright to leave?”

“Yes! I really can’t wait to see Bath.”

The driver tipped his cap by way of response and they were soon on the road. Jester’s one book was sat snuggly in her lap. She flipped through the introductory chapters, keeping her eyes peeled for when the romance began.

Jester was not accustomed to long trips. But she had made this journey once before, albeit under slightly different circumstances and from the opposite direction. With a soft exhale, she rested her head against the side of the carriage, curling into a ball and pulling her book into her lap. She had left almost all of her books at the Myriad, a subtle promise to her father and herself that she would be back. But she had wanted something to read for the long journey. The book she had chosen was not her favourite by any means. It did, however, fit her cause. Two lovers pulled apart by financial straits, only to find one another a decade later. She thought perhaps it might give her inspiration. While she had a goal, she did not exactly have a plan. She was not above falling to her knees and begging if the situation called for it. Though it might be smart to exhaust all other avenues first.

She made it through the first two chapters of her novel before growing restless. How much farther was left? She stuck her head out of the window and called out to the driver, “Excuse me, sir!”

The driver startled and the horses briefly fell out of rhythm.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was just wondering, how far away are we?”

“Forgive me,” he replied, pulling tighter on the reins. “We have been travelling for about half an hour. We have two days of travel left.”

“Two days?”

“We will be stopping to rest halfway. Please put your head back in the carriage, miss. It is not safe.”

Ignoring his request, she leaned out further and said, “But I didn’t have to stop last time.”

“I recall. I was told to push the horses through the night and into the afternoon to deliver you safely.”

“Oh. Was it you who drove me?”

“It was, miss.”

“Well, could you push the horses again? I’d rather get there sooner.”

“Is it… an emergency?” he asked, his voice taut. “The horses suffer desperately from such a journey.”

“Oh. Well, alright. Where are we stopping?”

“Your father has friends in many places.”

“So, we’re staying with a friend?”

“We will be staying at an inn.”

“Alright. If we have to,” she sighed.

The driver glanced over his shoulder. “Will you put your head back in the carriage now please?”

“Right away, sir! Unless you want some company? We could pull over and I could hop up there next to you. Maybe the journey would go faster with some conversation.”

“I would rather you didn’t, miss. Your father would have my head if you were injured or robbed.”

“I can be robbed from inside here!”

“Less easily if you hide your head. Your earrings alone are worth more than this vehicle.”

Pouting, Jester pulled away from the window and slumped back. She kicked her feet up onto the seat opposite and resigned herself to loneliness. She supposed it was not such a terrible thing to have more time to think upon her plans. The wedding was not so imminent that she was in danger of missing it. After all, the invitation she had been instructed to refuse had to even arrived at the Myriad before she had departed. She would be bored, yes, but not late.

Thinking to give conversation one final try, she leaned out to ask, “Can I ask your name at least?”

“It’s Harris. I thought you were staying inside.”

“Thank you, Harris, yes that will be all,” she said, her voice dripping, in equal parts irritation and authority.

Jester had no choice but to pick her book back up and flipped a few chapters ahead. The Captain was unlacing the ribbons on the lady’s bodice. Her attention was engaged. For the time being.

* * *

As the heat of the day settled into a warm orange glow of evening, the carriage turned into a crowded little market town of medieval proportions, past a sign that read ‘Welcome to St Albans’. Jester did not hesitate in craning her head out of the window, determined to take in the streets and their people.

“Good evening!” she cried, waving at an elderly couple. When they merely gawked at her, she waved harder at each passing person until finally a little girl, clutching a woman’s hand, gave a little hop and a wave at the sight of her. Jester beamed. The girl beamed back. Then Harris turned the corner and the girl had gone.

A moment later, the carriage slowed to a stop outside of a coaching inn. The top of the building leaned forwards a little as though it was trying to kiss the roof of the house across the road. Jester wondered how old it was, with its dark wooden beams and heavy front door. If this was the place she was spending the night, she hoped that it was haunted. It looked haunted.

“Are we here?” she asked Harris. “That is, I know we’re here. But are we staying in this inn?”

“We are indeed, miss.”

He pulled the door open for her and offered a hand to help her down. She ignored it and jumped out and onto the street independently. She had far too much energy. Were her legs asleep? She swung her arms and stomped her feet, while asking Harris, “Do you know if this inn is haunted?”

“I’m sure people say it is. People will say anything is haunted.”

“But is it  _ actually _ haunted? Are there ghosts wailing through the night?”

“I’m really not certain.”

Jester huffed. “You could have made something up,” she muttered under her breath as Harris led her into the dark inn.

The air inside was stagnant and wine stained. She knew the latter smell well. It rose through the floorboards of the Chateau and sank into every soft wood or fabric surface like a sweet, heavy perfume. A sweet, heavy reminder of childhood. She sniffed the air happily.

The tables were crowded, but the conversation did not sound lively. The clientele here was focused on rest rather than recreation. There were no tables set up for gambling or even any indication of mingling between parties. She shrugged it off. She had a grander purpose on this journey than to find entertainment from strangers. There were still a few pages of her book left to get her through the evening.

She was only half listening to Harris’ conversation with the bartender, but her ears prickled at the words, “Sorry. No rooms left.”

She snapped her attention from the room at large to the towering man behind the bar. His head barely avoided scraping the low ceiling with every shift of his body.

“Are we going somewhere else?” she asked Harris, eyes still on the whisps of hair which tickled the wooden beams above.

Harris, by way of reply, gave the bartender a wry smile. Jester knew that appearances could be deceiving, but she found it difficult to imagine that if those two men were to enter a disagreement, Harris would come out victorious.

Harris said nothing, instead pulling a letter from the inside of his jacket and carefully pushing it across the bar.

The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Is this a bribe?”

“Just read it,” said Harris.

The bartender kept his eyebrow up and broke the seal. Jester watched intently as his eyes scanned quickly. His expression shifted with an even greater speed. From bemused to focused to terrified. When he looked up, his eyes fell not on Harris, but Jester.

Jester did not know why this giant of a man was looking at her as though she was a harbinger of death. The only response she felt appropriate was to smile and wave back at him.

The bartender flickered his attention back to Harris and, as he leaned forwards to whisper, Jester leaned closer to Harris so she would not miss what he had to say.

“Is this her?”

Harris nodded.

“Right,” said the bartender, pulling back sharply. “Right. If you give me a moment, miss, I will have the best of our rooms prepared for you.”

“Oh,” she said. “I thought you were full.”

“Yes, but it appears you have a reservation.”

“I do?”

“You do!”

“Oh. That’s wonderful. My father thinks of everything.”

* * *

Her room was sparsely furnished, but the wood was rich and dark. It smelt of ale and varnish. She imagined herself in the belly of a ship. Or a captain’s quarters. She refused to feel as though she was standing still for the night. This was simply a part of the journey. Painting a picture of the sea on the insides of her eyelids, she could almost make herself feel queasy. Could imagine the floorboards rocking beneath her feet.

She was not allowed to want for anything. She was delivered the most delicious items from the kitchen, brought paper and ink when she realised she had forgotten to pack any, and even offered one of the barman’s books when she mentioned she had finished the only novel she had with her. She took it to be polite, but after a few pages it became clear that it was a stuffy trudge of a story. She put it aside and made a mental note to drop the title in a future conversation when she felt the need to look cultured.

_ Nadine _

_ It’s me – Jester. I’m outside right now. Do not give anything away. It is a great secret. I know that I was not supposed to come, but I needed to see mama at least once before the wedding. Come outside so we can organize a meeting between us. If the kitchen has pastries, please bring some of those with you. Don’t say where you’re going. See you soon. _

_ Your Favourite Student _

_ Jester _

That seemed to evoke the right degree of drama, she thought. While being succinct. Now what? She folded up Nadine’s letter and stared hard at the remaining blank pages. Who else could she write to? Her father would want to know she was safe. Hannah and Kitty might also be worried. No matter where she went, she seemed to invoke everybody’s concern.

She began to write separate letters. One for Hannah, for Kitty, and for her father. All full of promise and good news. But she tossed each draft into the fire. Better to wait, she decided. Better to have a firmer footing in her plan before she reached out. She stuffed some of the blank pages in her bag for later, keeping one in case she felt compelled to draw.

The night itself did not pass quickly. She was too full of anticipation to settle. The possibility that she might not get to see her mother the following day was almost as stomach-churning as the excitement she felt thinking that they might be reunited before her next sleep.

To keep her mind busy, she scribbled a rough sketch of her room, adding ghosts in every corner – a sobbing bride, a wounded soldier, a girl with a doll, and an old man trying to keep his false teeth from clattering to the floor. That was how she fell asleep.

* * *

They left just as the sun was rising the next day, with the intention of arriving in Bath before it set. Though Jester was tempted to beg Harris to move faster, they kept an impressive pace. It must have still been late afternoon by the time the landscape grew familiar. She recognised one building. And then another. That was the sweet shop she had walked to when she was old enough to go out alone. And that was the book shop she avoided after being disappointed with their selection. She wondered if they would pass the Chateau, but they were soon reaching streets Jester had only recently become acquainted with. The ones where the most noble of nobility would stay. A great house which boasted to have played host to the Prince Regent himself on one occasion. They would be at Sharpe’s estate, she knew, at any moment. Then the moment came, and she could not feel her fingertips.

Harris parked the carriage on the street, as she had instructed, rather than turning into the drive. He then hopped down, opened her carriage door, and said, “I believe we’re here, Miss.”

Jester nodded, biting down hard on her lower lip.

“Is everything alright?” he pressed.

“Yes! Everything is perfect. I just need you to do me a favour.”

“Of course.”

The letter for Nadine had sat on her lap for the entire journey. Now, she thrust it in Harris’ face.

“Could you run this to the door? Ask for Nadine. It needs to go right to her. Not to Lord Sharpe and not to my mother.”

“I will try my best.”

He reached for the letter, but Jester panicked and pulled it to her chest. “I need you to do better than promise to try. I need you to promise to do it.”

“I can promise whatever you like, miss, but it doesn’t guarantee a result.”

“Hmm. Well… what if we switched clothes? I could hide my face under your hat, and you could just sit in the carriage in my dress. Or you could take a turn about the town if you want to show it off. It’s very pretty.”

“I would really prefer not to.”

“So, you can just stay in the carriage.”

“Miss. I will deliver the letter to the desired recipient.”

Jester chewed on the inside of her lip for a few seconds before saying, “Alright. I’ll trust you.”

As Mr Harris ran the crucial errand, Jester waited inside the carriage. She did not dare peek through the window for fear of someone seeing her face and reporting it to Sharpe. Even her mother. She did not want to stir the pot too much before she had gotten a good idea of the lay of the land.

Jester could not sit still, though. She huffed and fidgeted. Shifted her behind across the bench, leaning against the opposite side of the carriage, and sighing deeply. Harris was taking too long. What was taking him too long? What if Nadine wasn’t home? She felt she had made it perfectly clear that her letter should be given to no one else. Perhaps she could have made it clearer.

She was suffocating, suddenly, in that casket of a carriage. Her dress was too tight. If only she had asked Harris to let her out in a nearby park. She could have waited safely beneath a tree, breathing air freely.

Just then, the carriage door was pulled open. With such ferocity that Jester believed she would turn her head to come face to face with Lord Sharpe. It was not his angry face, however, which greeted her. But Nadine’s.

Nadine said nothing until she had climbed into the carriage and slammed the door closed behind her.

“Drive!” she cried out.

Harris must have returned because they took off with a lurch. Once they were moving, Nadine focused her full, enraged attention onto Jester.

“What,” she said, voice quaking with fury, “Are you doing here?”

Jester shrunk into herself. All previous confidence was shaken, but she did not want to give that away entirely. With as forceful a tone as she could muster, she replied, “I’m here to see my mother.”

Nadine scoffed, bringing her fingers to her temple.

“Are you cross with me?” asked Jester.

“I’m livid, my dear.”

“I think that might be a bit of an overreaction. I haven’t  _ really  _ done anything wrong.”

Nadine shot her a look which stole her confidence away once more. Jester did not have anything clever to add.

After a moment, Nadine said, “You will break your mother’s heart.”

“I will not! I would never.”

“Then take this carriage back to Norfolk at once.”

Jester swallowed hard and looked Nadine straight in the eye. “I will not do that either,” she said.

“Your mother has spoiled you,” muttered Nadine. Before Jester could snap back, she continued, “Do not think that an insult to her. I love that woman. As I love you.” The words sounded unnatural coming from her mouth, as though they took a great amount of strength to say. But if it was strange for Nadine to express such love, it was even stranger to receive it. Jester knew her longest-standing governess to be loyal and stubborn, but she had never imagined it was due to any love for Jester herself. She had given up on charming the woman a long time ago. Still, when tears began to well in Nadine’s eyes, Jester could not doubt it.

“Oh, Nadine,” she cooed, reaching out to place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Nadine gave a small jerk. It was not enough to pull fully away from Jester, but it sent a clear enough message that, though beloved, Jester was not forgiven. She took her hands into her lap and twisted her fingers together.

Staring at her entwined fingers, Jester asked, “Is it really so bad that I am here?”

“You know that it is or else you wouldn’t have taken such pains to remain hidden.”

“But I have stayed hidden. Sharpe knows nothing of my arrival.”

“And he will never know of it.”

“He doesn’t have to. I just need a moment alone with my mother. I know you can orchestrate that for us. Surely Sharpe doesn’t keep her under lock and key?”

“No. She is not a prisoner. But that does not alleviate the danger of you meeting her. He is a powerful man in this city. His eyes are everywhere.”

“You make him sound like a spymaster. Or a king.”

“He thinks of himself as one. A king, that is. Spymaster might be a little grim for his liking,” Nadine fell into pursed-lip thought as Jester waited for her to concede in some way. With a sigh, she leaned forwards to knock on the wood that separated them from the driver’s seat. The carriage slowed to a trot. Then finally to a stop.

Nadine ducked her head out of the window and called out, “Take me back to Sharpe’s estate. And then take Miss Lavorre to the Leaky Tap.”

“Is that in Bath?” asked Jester giddily as Nadine pulled her head back in.

The carriage began to move once more.

“Yes,” said Nadine.

“So, you’re letting me stay?”

“For now.”

Jester beamed at her old governess and it took all of her restraint to not leap at her with a great hug.

“So,” said Jester, “This ‘Leaky Tap’ is somewhere Sharpe wouldn’t go? I’ll admit it sounds a little bit… leaky.”

“There might be the odd leak. But it is in a safe area of town and is nowhere near up to Sharpe’s standards. He wouldn’t even associate with the people who go there.”

“Oh! It sounds exciting. I hope there are ruffians.”

Nadine snorted, but said nothing else and did not look at Jester for the last few minutes of their journey back to the estate.

Then, she said, “I will see what I can do about getting your mother to you. Oh, and here,” she said, sipping into her pocket and pulling out something wrapped in a napkin.

“What’s this?”

“You asked for pastries.”

Jester took the offering and unwrapped it carefully to see a cinnamon swirl.

Softly, she said, “Thank you, Nadine.”

Nadine gave her a curt nod and exited the carriage.

* * *

There were no ruffians at the Leaky Tap, but there were no signs of gentry anywhere either. Nadine had made a wise choice. She stood out in her fine dress, even if it was one of her plainer ones, chosen for travelling.

She waved at the lonely men who gave her a confused glance. Not a one responded in kind.

“Miss,” said Harris, at her elbow. “I am not sure your father is familiar with this particular establishment. You might need to pay.”

Jester frowned. She had no problem with dipping into her coin purse, but she had half-expected her father’s reach to extend to every seedy underbelly of every city and town in the country.

“Here,” said Jester, dropping her weighty purse into Harris’ hand. “Get us two rooms.”

“Oh, Miss, you don’t need to pay for me. They’ve offered me a patch in the stables.”

“With the horses?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds disgusting, Mr Harris. You should sleep in a real bed.”

Harris glanced back and forth between her and the purse he held. He was clearly at war with his honour.

“Don’t worry,” she added. “We don’t have to tell father that I spoilt you.”

He gave a small smile and said, “Thank you, miss.”

After all, she thought once she was tucked away in her room for the night, Harris had no need to feel as though he was taking advantage of her generosity. The place was cheaper than she could have even imagined, and the lump mattress on the tiny wooden bed was hardly too great a step up from sleeping on a pile of straw.

She tried to imagine her mother in a place like this. In a cold, damp, barely decorated room above an equally depressing barroom. She knew that the Ruby of the Sea had not always performed in grand establishments, that she had learnt to sing in a farming village just north of the Black Sea, in the south of an Empire Jester had never seen. But the Ruby as Jester knew her, she was shrouded in decadence. More than she could ask for and more than she ever seemed to desire. It seemed wrong to think of her silk shoes kicking up dust, sticking to patches of spilt ale.

Perhaps it would never come to fruition. Perhaps she would hide in this dreary establishment for a week, even two, before returning to Norfolk with a heavy heart. She was restless and exhausted all at once – at a loss for what to do.

Beyond the bed, the only other furnishings the room provided was a small wooden table and chair that she supposed was meant to serve as a desk. She retrieved the paper she had taken from St Albans and considered writing. Though she quickly found herself facing the same struggles as the night before. What good news could she offer? What could she say which would not give away the truth behind her departure?

Her struggles were broken by a gentle knock at the door. Jester’s heart stopped.

“Who is it?” she called out, embarrassed by how much her voice shook.

A voice she knew better than her own replied, “The Ruby has come to see you.”

Jester jumped to her feet and ran to fling the door open. There was Marion Lavorre, a hood pulled up and down over her characteristic ruby locks.

“Oh, Jester!” she cried, sweeping forwards, the door swinging closed behind her.

“Mama!”

They clutched at one another, holding on as tightly as their strength allowed.

“I cannot stay long,” said Marion.

“I know.”

“But I am so happy to see you.” Marion pulled out of the embrace and placed her hands on Jester’s shoulders. “Even if I did not want you to come.”

“I couldn’t miss your wedding, Mama.”

Marion laughed, her eyes brimming with tears. "You are not coming to my wedding!" 

She pulled Jester to her chest once more and they rocked together, saying nothing, crying in silent tandem.

Eventually, Marion whispered, “I really cannot stay.”

“Then go.”

“But I will be back.”

It was Jester who broke the hug this time. She stepped back and looked up at her mother. She could not see the room around her. The silly juxtaposition she had imagined was beyond her. All she knew, then, was her mother’s face.

“Will we be able to speak properly then?” asked Jester.

“Yes. Yes, I promise that the next time we see one another, we will speak properly.”

They embraced once more before Marion went, lingering for a second just to smile at her daughter once more.

As the door closed behind her, the silent tears that stained Jester’s face turned hot and heavy. Her chest heaved and she fell to her creaky and lumpy bed, choking on sobs. She could not have said how long she cried for, but when she felt able to walk, she ventured back to the makeshift desk.

There she sat, and wrote,

_ Dear Mr Widogast _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> please leave comments/kudos if you enjoyed <3


	13. Dear Friends

“Let us never underestimate the power of a well-written letter.” – Jane Austen, Persuasion

* * *

Miss Lavorre had not yet been absent a week, but it was a pointed absence. Though he was loath to admit it, the loss of her company was sharp against his gut - poking and pinching. He would not think the exact words, that he missed her. It felt too dangerous - too close to actively waiting for her return; jumping at every movement for hope that it would prove to be her doing. After that it would not be long before he was twitching his office curtains for a desperate glimpse of her rolling down that slope once more.

Caleb sighed. His head was ringing. He dropped the pen he had been holding, bringing both of his forefingers to his temples and pressed, squeezing his eyes closed. He supposed he could admit that he missed having a friend. It had been so long since he had been able to call anyone in his life anything more than an acquaintance or colleague.

Still, It would have been easier to simplify his feelings in this way if he were not plagued at all times by thoughts of her. The wiggle of her eyebrows when she teased him, the crease between those brows when she was suddenly lost in thought, or her face turned towards the raucous coast. Unflinching. 

He opened his eyes to an empty office. This, he reminded himself, was reality. There was no woman sitting across from him, drawing his caricature in a gardening manual or anything else she considered scrap paper. The dimple in his chin grew deeper every time she drew it. He felt a smile creep upon his face.

Then came a knock at the door.

He flushed red at how quickly he stood, knocking his knee against the top of his desk in his hurry. It was pure foolishness. He had been so lost in Miss Lavorre that he had been convinced, for a split second, that she was at his office door. But Miss Lavorre did not knock. 

Collecting himself and clearing his throat, he said, “Come in.”

The door handle rattled, and he felt his breath hitch in his chest. It swung open slowly, almost creeping, before finally revealing Hannah Therad. His breath eased.

“My God,” she said with a drawl. “Mr Widogast, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You surprised me. That is all.” He cleared his throat once more as though it might steady his voice. It did not. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Therad?”

“I have a letter for you.” She had still not stepped over the threshold. Instead she leaned against the doorframe, letter dangling without a care at her side. A sly smile spread across her face as she added, “I believe it is from Miss Lavorre.”

He swallowed hard. “I was not aware that you were delivering letters now.”

“I assumed you would be glad to receive news from Bath. Should I have had Mr Blude hide it in some dark corner and hope you’d stumble across it eventually?”

“Forgive me,” he said, taking his seat and reaching for his pen. “I am grateful. If you wouldn’t mind simply leaving the letter on my desk?”

“Am I to be dismissed so unceremoniously,” she sighed.

He glanced up. “Is there a further matter you would like to discuss?”

“I was merely under the impression that you enjoyed being teased by beautiful young women.”

The dull ache in his temples grew sharper. Like a cacophony reaching its crescendo. His eyes fluttered closed and he attempted to steady his breath

Miss Therad spoke again. “Never mind. I have rattled your poor nerves.” Her voice was not lacking sympathy entirely, but that sympathy was swallowed by a far larger creature which seemed hungry for his embarrassment. When he opened her eyes, he saw that she was pouting at him.

“Miss Therad, would you like to take a seat.”

“I would love to.”

She strolled across the room with a high chin and a slight swagger. He knew her well enough to be certain that she was not trying to entice him. This was a display of confidence and determination. The trouble was that, if the conversation was heading in the direction he believed it to be, Miss Therad had every right to be confident.

Once in her seat, she leaned backwards, almost slumping. The letter was still in her possession and she began to drum the edge of it against her open palm.

“Do you want to know something?” she asked. He gave a flinching nod. “Only two letters arrived from Miss Lavorre today. One was addressed to her ‘Friends at the Myriad’ while the other was addressed only to _you_. Why do you think that is?”

His face was ablaze, but he kept his voice even and said, “Perhaps she does not consider me to be one of her friends.”

“Do not be so hard on yourself. I believe Jester is terribly fond of you.”

“Miss Therad, I do not wish to be rude but I would ask you to stop dancing around your point and to simply reveal it.”

The drum of the letter paused. Miss Therad took Caleb in from crown to chin, as though trying to read him. She must have garnered something because after a moment she tossed the letter across the desk. It landed right under Caleb’s nose. He could not help but give it a glance. Just to be sure that it was for him. And, yes, there was his name. ‘Mr Widogast’ written in the same curling hand he had seen on the letter he rescued for Miss Lavorre. 

Miss Therad smiled. Caleb did not mind allowing her a small victory in his weakness.

She said, “Mr Widogast, it is my suspicion that there is an attachment between you and my friend Jester. Am I correct?”

He froze. This was not, in fact, the direction he had expected the conversation to go. He had suspected that she had picked up on his own feelings. Instead she had conjured a fantasy. The pause seemed to satisfy her. He sighed deeply, not wanting to rush over his words and be thought a liar.

“Miss Therad,” he began carefully. “I do not want to disappoint you. I know how much you adore being correct. In this case, however, you are sorely mistaken. There is no attachment between myself and Miss Lavorre nor is there any possibility of one developing.”

Her face did not fall. She tilted her head, perhaps trying to improve her understanding of him by viewing him from a new angle. She tilted her head the other way. Caleb continued to blush.

Finally, she said, “I am not here to make an enemy of you. In fact, I was rather hoping to get to know you better. If Jester is so fond of you, then there must be something enjoyable about your company.”

He chuckled uncomfortably. “You, Miss Therad, are a force to be reckoned with, are you not?”

She shrugged, but she did not seem offended. If anything, she appeared flattered, and sat up a little straighter.

“It is a shame then,” he continued, “That you are misguided in your current mission.”

“In befriending you or attempting to discover a secret romance?”

“The latter.” Her eyes narrowed. “But if you would like to speak with me on any other subject then I will not stop you.”

“You know, I might just do that. You are far more interesting than I ever suspected, Mr Widogast.”

“Oh, yes,” he sighed, his voice laced with sarcasm as his eyes dropped down to the letter once more. “I am a terribly interesting man.”

“I will leave you to your work,” she said. He heard the rustling of her standing and beginning to leave. Though she did pause to say, “I ought to confess that I had one more motive for my visit. You see, in the letter to her ‘friends at the Myriad,’ Jester requested we make sure that you do not get lonely in her absence.”

His heart dropped into his stomach as his head snapped up. Miss Therad did not look back as she let the door swing closed behind her. His fingers fumbled for the letter, tracing the seal, suddenly afraid to break it. As though a similar confrontation to the one he had just experienced would leap out. But he could not bear the suspense of waiting to read it.

Swallowing his fear, he split the wax and began to read.

_Dear Mr Widogast_

_I know that you can keep a secret. You keep your own well enough. I think I will tell the others that everything is well and that I am staying with my mother. There is no reason for them to doubt me because none of them know, save for you, that I was told not to go to Bath. The return address I have given is for a run-down little inn named ‘The Leaky Tap.’ It is somewhat leaky but it’s not so bad._

_I realise that I am sounding rather suspicious right now. Please know that I am safe. It is just that I am not with my mother. She was here a moment ago, but she left so quickly it feels almost as though I dreamt her. She could very well be a dream. She is so beautiful that I cannot put her into words. You’ll understand when you see her. And you will see her. Nothing I’ve seen or heard has yet to make me believe that I will fail in freeing my mother from Sharpe and bringing her back to the Myriad. In fact, the more controlling Sharpe seems, the more reason I have against her marrying him._

_I must admit that I miss the country. I never thought it was possible to prefer any place in the world over Bath, but it is not the same as it once was. The streets have soured, and my childhood home has been boarded over. Without my mother, business was bad. It isn’t too surprising I suppose. She was the jewel of the Chateau._

_I realise that I’m rambling, but I don’t have much to do besides write. If I were at the Myriad, I could sit at your desk and bother you for hours, so I don’t think you can be annoyed by a slightly long letter. I’ll keep writing for a bit longer._

_Oh! I read a book you might like. Well, I read a page of it. It was very boring. I wish I had brought more than one of my books with me. I read it twice during my journey. The boring book had a musky smell. Just like your office. I don’t remember the plot, but I think it was about a war. I only flicked through, but it didn’t seem like anyone got their dress ripped off. Not that those are the only books I like. I also like fairy tales and chaste romances. As long as there’s a happy ending, I will read most things. Or, at least, I will try to._

_I hope I haven’t missed anything too exciting while I am gone. If I find out that there were any parties I will be very upset. You can play after-dinner games and maybe dance a little, but nothing in the ballroom. Does that seem too demanding? I just feel as though it would be more polite for everyone to make sure I’m there for any proper parties. I hope you don’t think I’m acting spoilt again. I wouldn’t really be angry or even that upset. You should throw as many parties as you want. In fact, throw parties even if you don’t want to. I’m worried that, without me, you will just stay cooped up in that dark office all day. You must be very lonely. If you are reading this after spending most of your day in there, then go for a walk. Unless it’s nighttime. Then go to sleep. I’m sure you don’t sleep enough._

_And now I am running out of paper. Please write back quickly, I am very bored already._

_Your Dear Friend_

_Jester Lavorre_

Caleb read it once through a second time before folding the letter, placing it carefully back down on the desk, putting his newly freed hands to his mouth, and letting out a muffled scream. 

Denial was no longer a possibility. 

* * *

A day passed before he had settled on his next course of action. Miss Cree seemed the obvious accomplice. She was a constant at the Myriad, as opposed to Miss Therad who flitted between the estate and the town. More than this, however, she had less poison on her tongue. It would still be something of an ordeal, but it would be a bearable one.

“Miss Cree,” he greeted, entering the parlour.

She delicately put aside her needlework and sat expectantly. There was no one around to overhear them, but he walked closer and kept his voice low, “I was wondering if I might request, ah, a favour of sorts.”

She fixed him with a curious stare as she slowly got to her feet.

“Well,” she said. “Will you tell me what this favour is before I agree to it.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Is now a good time?”

“Does it look like I am doing anything else?”

“Right.”

“Mr Widogast, are you quite alright?”

He pulled at his cravat, his forefinger between the fabric and the burning skin of his neck. It felt as though he was choking on the words he had not yet said. Perhaps this whole thing was a mistake, he thought. But then he thought of Miss Lavorre sitting alone in a damp inn without a single source of entertainment. And she got bored so quickly.

He cleared his throat and said, “Yes. Sorry. I am quite well. I am just,” he let out a small, nervous laugh, “I do not quite know how to word this.”

“Why don’t you give it a go and, if you are unhappy with your chosen words, then you can try again.”

With a pained smile, he pushed on, “I have led you to believe that what I have to say is far more interesting than it is. I was only hoping that you might fetch a book for me. From Miss Lavorre’s room.”

She was trying not to smile. He could tell by the way she sucked in her lower lip.

He rushed to add, “She expressed to me, in her letter, that she wished she had brought more of her books back to Bath with her. I believe that the ones she has here are her favourites. So I thought she might appreciate it if we could send her at least one to keep her entertained.”

Miss Cree stopped trying to hide her smile. “Well then,” she said. “If that is the favour, then I would be happy to help you. More than happy, in fact.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Come then.” She moved past him, towards the hall. When he hesitated, she said, “I do not think you will cause a scandal by waiting outside of her bedroom door.”

He conceded and followed her up the stairs. While he waited outside of the door, Miss Cree read out Miss Lavorre limited library. Each title, one by one. None were familiar.

“I am afraid,” he called back, “That I am not particularly well-versed in the genre of romance.”

He heard Miss Cree sigh, then, a moment later, she emerged with six books piled high in her tiny hands.

“I did not need that many,” he said.

“Yes, but I thought we might sort through them better together. Here.”

She deposited the pile into his arms and he tried not to quiver beneath the weight. As they marched down the stairs, with Miss Cree in the lead, he prayed that his strength would not give. The fear of dropping six heavy books on her head kept his hold steady. Once they were back in the parlour, Caleb dropped the books onto the nearest clear surface.

He let out a huff and, out of instinct more than anything, fiddled with his cravat. Miss Cree paid him no mind. She simply took the book closest to her and began to flip through. Unsure what he was looking for, Caleb did the same. If he were to forgo work for the reminder of the day, he was sure he could read all six volumes from cover to cover. But he was still not confident that he would know, after that, which was the right book to send.

Seeming to share his apprehension, Miss Cree said, “What, in Miss Lavorre’s mind, makes for a good read?”

“She, ah, mentioned happy endings, but I do believe she enjoys smut above all else.”

Shesnorted, “Smut it is, then.”

For the better part of an hour, they mechanically poured over the pages. From the few clues Caleb had been provided, they had decided that they would send whichever book contained the most smut. They did not read _every_ page. They merely skimmed and made good progress. Caleb was a fast reader, but Miss Cree kept good pace with him. Soon they were both on their third book each. In fact, Caleb had begun to believe that their work would be concluded without any further humiliation. He should have known better, in retrospect, than to expect Miss Therad to stay away from the Myriad for too long.

Mr Blude announced her arrival to the parlour at large and she appeared from behind him with her head held high - a pale imitation of nobility. That was, until Miss Cree gave her a simple look. At that, she broke into a laugh and practically skipped over to them.

“What are we doing?” she asked. “It looks very boring.”

Miss Cree held up the book she was reading. “We are looking for smut.”

Eyes flickering between the two of them, she said, “You are serious, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Miss Cree. “Very serious.”

“Whatever for?”

“Mr Widogast is trying to decide which of Miss Lavorre’s romance novels she might appreciate being sent the most.”

Miss Therad’s eyes flickered back to Caleb and settled there. “Is he, now?”

Caleb nodded curtly and forced himself to stare back down at the page he had been skimming a moment beforehand. From the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Therad drop down to sit on the couch beside Miss Cree.

“What have you found?” asked Miss Therad.

“Rather a lot,” replied Miss Cree.

He felt Miss Therad’s eyes fall on him once more. “Mr Widogast,” she said, “Which do you think Miss Lavorre would be happiest to receive?”

He stared back as best he could, focusing on her nose. “I believe the one about the princess and the farmhand would keep her best entertained. Do you not agree, Miss Cree?”

Miss Cree seemed to have grown distracted by a loose thread on Miss Therad’s sleeve. Hearing her name, she jolted out of her daze.

“Sorry, I did not hear the question.”

Caleb smiled and reached for the book he had described. As he did so, he said, “I will leave you two to enjoy your afternoon. Miss Therad, Miss Cree,” he bowed his head to each in turn, “It has been a pleasure.”

He was not sure if he imagined it, but Miss Therad might have winked at him.

Having returned to the sanctity of his office, Caleb sat down to write his response to Miss Lavorre.

_Dear Miss Lavorre_

_I do not know what to write, but I did not want to disappoint you. I am not the most eloquent of men. That is one of the reasons I have sent this along with one of your books. I hope this one is not your least favourite. It seemed the most exciting read to me, but then, as you stated, my tastes have a tendency to be a little less than exciting. Your library, however small, puts mine to shame in these terms. I wonder if you might perhaps recommend a novel which combines the romance with a little learning? A historical setting would be preferable but I am not too fussed._

_Your absence is felt strongly here at the Myriad. Your father does not smile as often. Miss Therad has been forced to take on the highly important task of teasing me. She is not as skilled as you, but I appreciate the effort. Poor Miss Cree has grown so bored without you that she has lowered herself to conversing with the likes of me._

_You should know that I have absolutely not opened my curtains, but it is the sunlight, more than the candlelight, which strains my eyes. I am writing this in almost complete darkness and my head has never felt clearer._

_I am very glad to hear of your early success and offer my assistance (if any can truly be offered) from the Myriad._

_Your Constant Friend_

_Mr Widogast_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much <3
> 
> please comment/kudos if you enjoyed!


	14. A Matter of Patience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw abuse for this chapter
> 
> thank you to my dearest oftennot for betaing

"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.” - Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

* * *

Jester did not expect her mother _first_ thing the following morning. Waking up early, as she tended to do, she knocked for Mr Harris and, when he opened his door still half-asleep, she thrust two letters towards him.

“Good Morning!” she said brightly. “Could you post these at your earliest convenience please? Thank you.”

Harris took the letters with furrowed brows. The first was for Mr Widogast and the second was for everyone else. Well, for Kitty, Hannah, and her father really. But she didn’t mind if anyone else saw it. It held little of the truth and no secrets whatsoever. Still, she suspected that they would be glad to hear from her, and she would eagerly await their reply.

The letter for Mr Widogast was a different matter entirely. She had, without meaning to, spilled much of her heart onto the page and, more than eagerly, she would pray for a swift response on his part. Just a gentle reminder that she had not made a terrible mistake or even a reassurance that her babbling had not bothered him. God, she hated being alone. The silence crept up her spine. She was barely back in her room for five minutes before she felt pressed to flee.

Knocking for Harris once more, she greeted his still-weary face with a few additional requests and a handful of coins. With that, she was out of tasks to occupy her morning. She did manage to burn through an hour or so experimenting with different ways to pin back her hair, but her heart was not really in it. She pulled out her sketchbook but found herself lacking inspiration. She had, after all, decided what she wanted to do and until she had the means to do it then no other task could keep her attention.

It was almost noon by the time Harris returned.

She beamed at him and said, “Did you send the letters?”

“I did.”

“And did you get my paints?” By way of answering, he held up a small box and a thin package wrapped in tissue. Greedily, she seized them. “Thank you.”

“It was no trouble.”

“Did you want to go down to the bar? We could play cards?”

“Miss,” he said, sounding too apologetic for her liking. “I am afraid that I cannot stay.”

“Right now?”

“At all. There is business your father wishes me to conduct. I was supposed to leave last night.”

“Oh.”

He frowned. “If you need me, then I am sure he would understand. Only, he was under the impression that you were staying with your mother.”

“No!” she cried. “No. You go. And you don’t say anything to my father about all this. Is that alright?”

“I suppose.”

She closed the door slowly, dragging out the process of shutting herself away. It would not be long before her mother came, she reminded herself. But that did not mean she would be free. It might be days or weeks yet before she could once more roam beyond the confines of the Leaky Tap. And now she had no ally. No route out through letter or purchase. She remembered the cold box in her hand. Tightening her grip, the rustle of the tissue grounded her. She got to work.

It would only be a small thing. Really. And unless someone pushed aside the dresser as she had, nobody would even know it was there.

She fell to her knees, tapped her brush against her tongue, and began to paint. The cityscape of bath which had driven her artistry back at the Myriad shifted into tree lines and grassy slopes. By the time her stomach was grumbling for dinner, the entire space behind the dresser had been swallowed by vibrant green. That was enough, she decided. But she did not push the dresser back and would not until it was time to leave. If her mother did not come until later the next day, she might want to add some flowers or animals.

Once she had ordered and eaten food from the bar below, she decided to attempt for an early night. Her mind was somewhat distracted, however, and she sat up sketching until she was yawning.

Having a plan made the following day more bearable. She woke up, washed, dressed, ate, and returned to her painting. Adding splashes of colour to the greenery she had produced previously kept her happy for a few hours, but she could not drag out dotting daisies on such a small space. Her brush began to wander. Branches protruded, stretching out to tickle the bed frame and the door hinges. Stepping back, she had to stifle a laugh. There would be no easy way to hide the painting now. Without anything left to lose, she pressed on.

* * *

Marion did not come that day. Nor did she come the day after. Jester was pleased with the brightness of her walls, but no matter how hard she pressed her brush against them, they were still walls. Her skin was itching for escape.

Finally, after she had begun to paint the floors, there was a hard knock on her door. Too hard to belong to a member of the Leaky Tap’s staff. There was too much intent. Jester threw herself upon the door handle, cheeks already sore from grinning, and pulled it open.

“Oh,” she breathed.

“Good Morning, Genevieve,” replied Lord Sharpe.

There he stood, his moustache as thin as ever and his hairline seemingly ever further receded. Jester pushed her chin forwards to compensate for the trembling in her jaw. He made no moves to enter the room and she herself did not budge to invite him in.

“Good Morning, Sir,” she said. “Is my mother with you?”

“No. No, she does not even know that I am here.”

“Then how did you know where to find me?” she asked with a frown.

“Nothing happens beneath my roof without my knowing it. Similarly, there is nowhere your mother goes that I do not see her.”

“That is incredibly unnerving. But she has not been here.”

“Not for want of trying.”

Her blood boiled and her voice pitched, “What does that mean?”

“This morning, one of my associates caught sight of her entering this establishment. When they approached her she claimed to be lost. Apparently, she was supposed to be meeting an old friend in an inn on the other side of the city.”

“And of course you couldn’t simply trust the woman you intend to marry,” she seethed. Her rage had not cooled. Far from it. To think that her mother had been so close only a handful of hours ago and had been frightened away from Jester by one of Sharpe’s terrible associates. “Tell me, what problem do you have with a mother paying her daughter a visit?”

“The _problem_ ,” he replied, lacing the word with a parody of her accent, “Is that while she continues to hide you from me, how on earth can I be expected to trust her? For all I knew, she could have been visiting a lover. Perhaps she is planning to flee with my fortune once the wedding is over to live with you and your father.”

The way he said ‘father’ caused her stomach to churn. As though he were referring to a speck of dirt on his shoes.

“And yet here I am. No lover. No father. Only me. What is it about me that frightens you so?”

She could hear the heft of her breath puncture the silence. Sharpe said nothing. He did not need to. His eyes bulged and his jaw clenched. Whatever nerve the man had, she had touched upon it.

Down the hall, a door opened, and an elderly man emerged, stinking of gin. He paid no mind to Sharpe’s fine clothing and staggered between him and Jester. As he passed out of view, Jester saw that Sharpe had brought a silk handkerchief to his nose.

Keeping her voice as even as she could, she asked, “Why did you come here?”

The handkerchief stayed put as he replied, “To take you home. To put an end to this silliness.”

“What if I don’t want to go with you?”

“Then it seems unlikely you will see your mother anytime soon.”

Jester stared up at Sharpe with an expression so steeled she could feel her anger twitching to escape through her eyes and the corners of her mouth.

“Alright,” she said finally. “Let me pack my things.”

She considered slamming the door in his face but decided it might irritate him more if he was forced to watch her gather her belongings at a snail’s pace. Every item was picked up, moved, and packed away with unprecedented care. She even took the time to ensure that none of the pages in her novel were creased. When she could no longer drag out the process, she turned to see that Sharpe was not watching her. He was staring, instead, at the picture which had blossomed from the space where the dresser had once been – pouring onto neighbouring walls and several floorboards.

Softly, he said, “I did not expect such a degree of culture from such an establishment.”

Jester swallowed a smirk.

She walked two steps ahead of him down the hall and practically skipped down the stairs to reach the bar. Sharpe caught up in time to witness her pulling out her still-heavy purse. The barkeep started at the sound of coin against wood.

“I would like to settle for your services,” she said sweetly.

At her shoulder, Sharpe interjected, “That is far too much.”

The barkeep hesitated, hand outstretched. He glanced between Jester and Sharpe.

“Oh!” cried Jester, pulling out another handful of coins. “I have forgotten to tip you.”

She caught the barkeep’s eye and gave him a wink. He grinned and swept up her payment before Sharpe could make any further complaints.

Jester leaned forwards and added, “If any letters arrive for a Miss Lavorre, would you see to it that they are forwarded to the estate of Lord Sharpe.”

“I believe we can manage that, Miss.”

Sharpe had left his coach, finely engraved, and finished with glass windows, on the street directly outside. It was manned by a driver and a coachman, the latter of which hopped down at once to open the door for them. Sharpe raised a hand to indicate that Jester should enter first. It was then, with her hands clutching painfully hard at her luggage, that she wondered if she had made a mistake. Perhaps she ought to have slammed the door and locked out Sharpe. Locked out the world and waited for letters to bring her glimpses of life.

With a deep breath, she allowed her case to be taken from her and climbed into the coach. Sharpe sat opposite and glowered. She had no strength to stare back now. Giving her eyes a break, she let her head fall against the window and feasted upon the dirt road below.

When the coach moved, it did so at a careful pace. She felt Sharpe continue to glower as their journey progressed, but he did not seem to have any intention of speaking to her. She was grateful for this small mercy and enjoyed the rhythm of her purse rattling in her pocket whenever they hit an uneven patch of road.

Soon, she told herself, soon she would have more than a shred of her father’s fortune to ground her. Soon she would feel the warmth of her mother in her arms once more. Their steady pace prolonged the journey, and painfully so. She wondered if this was revenge on Sharpe’s part for her own dallying. Or perhaps it was merely a product of his paranoia. To protect his fortune, his reputation, his pride, and even his body with absurd precautions. A slow ride; a stepdaughter on a leash.

Sharpe’s Estate was as unwelcoming as ever. A square house with beige bricks and no greenery. It felt unnatural to her, now, to see a home devoid of plant-life.

Her things were not passed back to her. The coachmen took her case directly into the house and, when Jester entered the foyer, he was out of sight.

“Wait here,” ordered Sharpe.

The temptation to disobey was quelled by the presence of two heavyset footmen. As she waited for Sharpe to return, she strained her ears for any indication of her mother’s presence. Perhaps a whisper of a song or even a sigh. But she could not hear anything beyond the impatient tapping of her own foot.

The foyer spoke of self-decided grandeur. Simple but expensive. The odd adornment was fine but lacked any soul. She had to admit that the place shared similarities to the Myriad when she had first arrived. Before she had brought in her choices of furnishings and décor. She could not say why aspiring importance endeared her to her father and further embittered her to Lord Sharpe. It was not something she felt compelled to pay any mind to in that moment.

Hurried footsteps brought her attention to the hallway down which Sharpe had disappeared. Her heart stalled. Then she saw a flash of red hair.

“Mama!”

“Jester!”

The two women collided with such force that someone might suspect they had been apart for years rather than days. Jester began to offer a bagging apology while Marion squeezed and shushed her.

“Wait,” said Jester, stepping back and taking her mother’s hands in her own. “I need to say it. I’m so sorry. It was stupid of me to even come here after you tried so hard to keep me away.”

“Don’t be sorry. Don’t be sorry,” whispered Marion. “You are here, and I am so happy to see you.”

Jester choked out a sob and rushed back into her mother’s arms.

From the hallway beyond, Sharpe cleared his throat. Jester glanced over her mother’s shoulder and met his eye as he said, “And now, I believe, we can put an end to all this silliness.”

* * *

Marion and Jester were excused until dinner, giving them a little over an hour to spend alone together in Marion’s rooms upstairs. They sat without any space between them, holding hands and speaking in low voices.

Jester asked, “Do you know what his intentions are with me?”

“Nothing sinister. I can promise you that.”

“I think I offended him quite a bit.”

“He is offended rather easily.”

“Mama, this is madness.”

Marion brought her free hand to dab at her watering eyes and said, “I know. I know.”

“You _know_?”

“I have been a terrible, terrible fool. And a terrible mother.”

“Mama, no!”

“I thought I had laid down a perfect plan. Sharpe was away so often, and I thought, well I thought that after the wedding then there would be so much time we could spend together. But while he was away in London, he had conducted a thorough research on my background. On my financial circumstances. And he discovered that your father and I had never been married, that he had not passed away as I had told him, and that you were staying with him just a few counties away.”

“He is certainly a man with connections.”

“More than I had expected. I must admit that I believed him to be easily persuaded.”

“So, what now? When do we leave?”

Marion blinked. “Leave? My darling, I cannot leave. With the information that man has on me, he can ensure that no reputable man in the country would even consider marrying me. It was one thing when I was simply a singer or a _companion_ but my work in Venice and the circumstances of your birth… It is this marriage or no marriage I am afraid.”

“Then choose no marriage.”

“Jester.”

“Mama.”

“He claims to have forgiven you. So long as you _behave_.”

“I cannot behave. You know that. Not around him.”

“It will only be for when you stay here. When you are with your father you can run as wild as you like.”

Jester withdrew her hand and shuffled slightly away from her mother so she might see her better. Just to check that she was being entirely serious.

“So,” she began, swallowing hard, “The plan is for you to marry this terrible man who has agreed to not force me into marriage so long as I behave myself. However, given the fact that he and I are incapable of getting along, I will still have to spend most of my time with my father. Away from you. All for the sake of money.”

“Darling, poverty is no trivial thing.”

“If it is poverty you are worried about, then you ought to come back to Norwich with me and see the wealth that father has. His home is bigger than Sharpe’s and with sprawling land.”

Marion laughed shakily and said, “No. No, nothing about your father is as it seems. He cannot be relied upon. If there truly is wealth today, then it will likely be gone tomorrow.”

“If there is wealth? You think I would lie?”

“Of course not! But, well, you have a tendency to exaggerate. Particularly when you believe you are doing what is right.”

Jester felt her eyes gloss over as she withdrew into herself and said, “You do not trust me.”

“That is not true.”

“Then do not take my word for it,” she continued, pulling her purse from her pocket, and dropping it into Marion’s lap. “See for yourself.”

“What is this?”

“A fraction of my father’s sums. He wanted to ensure I was looked after.”

With a small smile, Marion ran her fingers over the silk of the purse. But she did not open it.

“Your father,” she breathed, “Has a good heart. I truly believe that. But I cannot-” she broke off to wipe away more tears and Jester quickly regretted letting go of her hand. “I cannot put my heart back into his hands. And you, Jester, are my heart now. Get to know him. Spend time with him. Stay with him. I think it is wonderful that you finally have this chance, but I cannot let your future, your security, depend on him.”

Jester nodded repeatedly. It was all she could offer. Marion continued to cry silent tears beside her.

After a moment, Jester said, “I should go and get ready for dinner.”

* * *

They ate, for the most part, in silence. This seemed to please Sharpe. As they sat down to eat, Jester asked, “Will Nadine not be joining us?”

Marion replied softly, “Nadine has gone to stay with her sister for a while.”

Jester’s eyes flickered to Sharpe who simply continued to sip at his soup. She had no doubt that Nadine’s sudden absence was his doing, but she knew that it would not do any good to bring that up.

Not another word was said until their plates were being cleared. It was Sharpe who spoke then, saying, “I was thinking we might have a party to celebrate the reunion of our family. Not to mention our fast approaching marriage, my dear.” He raised his glass at Marion.

“A party?” said Marion. “Jester, does that not sound wonderful?”

Jester bit down on the, “Not really,” which begged to roll from her tongue. Instead she looked to her mother’s pleading eyes, put on her sweetest smile, and said, “It does. It sounds very wonderful indeed.”

It did seem as though the three of them might be able to stumble through a meal without any upset. That was, until the letters arrived.

“Miss Lavorre,” said on the footmen, bowing as he approached the table. “These are for you.”

He held up a brown-paper package with a letter attached, and another letter unaccompanied.

“I will take those,” said Sharpe.

Her surprise at his demand served as an obstacle to her objection. She had hardly opened her mouth to complain when he was tearing open the unaccompanied letter.

She felt certain that her belongings had been rifled through before being deposited in her room. It made her feel uncomfortable in her gown to think of him running his fingers over the fabric. Searching, perhaps, for signs of treachery.

Sharpe read the first letter very quickly before tossing it on the table without much regard. “Your friend is getting married,” he said, pulling the second letter from its string and tearing it open.

“I know.”

“She is nervous about meeting the groom’s family.”

“I will read it myself later.”

Sharpe began to read the next letter with a similar expression of disinterest. Then, after a second, his jaw began to tremble. Jester knew very well that he was irritated by whatever he had discovered. He did not elaborate on the contents until he had torn open the package. Jester watched closely, anticipation rising in her chest. Followed by disappointment. It was only one of her old books. A sweet gesture, she supposed, but it was of little use to her now that she had returned to her room full of her old things.

“A romance novel,” said Sharpe with venom. “From a gentleman. Marion, does this seem appropriate?”

Marion raised an eyebrow, giving Jester a tweak of a smile, and said, “It seems charming to me.”

Sharpe returned his attention to Jester. “Who is this man, Genevieve, who feels so comfortable not only gifting you sordid literature, but asking you for recommendations?”

“Sir,” said Marion firmly. “You might be the man of this house, but that does not grant you the privilege of speaking to my daughter in such a manner.”

Jester interjected, “Am I not allowed friends now?”

“This is beyond the appropriate boundaries of friendship between men and women. If you are engaging in this sort of behaviour with your father, perhaps it is better that you minimise your time there.”

The firmness in Marion’s voice steeled. “I believe I just told you that you were not to address my daughter like that.”

“It is your mothering and these works of fiction which have marred the girl’s mind. She is likely to go to her ruin and then what? I cannot support two women of ill repute. You are fortunate that I have overlooked your own murky past.”

Jester snapped, “Do not speak to my mother like that!”

Sharpe stood suddenly, slamming a hand down on the table. There was little strength behind it, but it was as though he had shaken the whole room.

“Did I not say that this silliness was over? If you are both so devoid of decency, then you are free to leave my home. I have no patience for impertinence.” He tapped the cover of her novel. “And I have no patience for these flights of fancy.”

“You have no patience for anything which brings joy,” she said solemnly. “I cannot wait to see what sort of party you throw.”

“You are excused.”

“I will excuse myself.”

Jester snatched up her book and letters, and stormed up to her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!
> 
> please comment/kudos if you enjoyed


	15. Song for Sharpe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: more sharpe being an awful awful human being
> 
> thank you as always to @oftennot for being my rock and my beta

“Good-humoured, unaffected girls, will not do for a man who has been used to sensible women. They are two distinct orders of being.” – Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

* * *

There were no rules preventing Jester from roaming freely through Sharpe’s estate. Still, she felt like a thief creeping through corridors, attempting to steal secrets. It was not as simple a task as she had hoped. She had been too consumed with terrorising Sharpe himself to properly inspect his home. Now she was faced with the challenge of discovering the best places to eavesdrop, without being found pressing her ear to the floorboards, in the hopes of catching a slither of pertinent conversation. In the few days she was given a relative amount of peace, she found herself settling for pausing at corners and doorways to listen for hushed tones.

The trouble was that Sharpe said very little and, with Nadine gone, her mother had nobody but Jester to speak to. All Sharpe’s work was done outside of the house and no servant seemed to care enough about his matters to trade in rumour.

Jester spent hours sometimes with one ear to a thin wall, half-reading the book in her lap. Though she had managed to read a novel, cover to cover, two times over on her way to Bath, she was barely three chapters into the one Mr Widogast had sent for her. Despite having carried it with her for days. Every sound brought her out of the story, and she sometimes found herself at the bottom of a page having not taken in a single word. It was a matter of armour more than enjoyment. An excuse, for one, so she did not seem suspicious sitting alone in the quiet all day. But it was also a tangible object of defiance. Sharpe would glance at her and she would raise the book to cover her face, pretending to be enraptured. To hear his huff of disapproval was almost enough to compensate for his secrets being so well kept.

It was not until the day before Sharpe’s impending party that Jester stumbled upon a conversation that she had any interest in bearing witness to.

She heard Sharpe speak first.

“You know that I adore you.”

“I do know. I know it very well,” replied Marion.

Jester was almost more familiar with the syrupy tone her mother used to sway men than her natural voice. She pressed her back flat against the wall until her shoulder blades complained. A moment of silence followed which Jester thought must mean they were sharing a chaste kiss. When they resumed speaking, their voices were even lower than before.

“I have no experience in fatherhood,” said Sharpe. “I do not know when to be delicate and when to be firm. If I am cruel it is because I am concerned. She does not want me to arrange her a marriage. There are no children in the family for her to care for. She will waste away without intervention.”

Sounding a little more sour than sweet, Marion replied, “Must she be put to use? Is it not enough for her to be happy?”

“Happy?” Sharpe scoffed.

“Yes.  _ Happy _ .”

Jester’s breath stilled and she clutched tightly at the book she held at her hip as she waited for Sharpe’s response. After a beat, he said, “I will endeavour to keep that in mind.”

Jester did not dare linger any longer. She slipped back into an adjacent hallway and settled in the closest empty room. It was one of her mother’s – full of instruments and furniture that had been taken straight from the chateau itself. Jester had kept her distance from this room, as she had all those belonging to her mother. She did not want to fall into another disagreement. It unsettled her to be at odds with the woman who she loved above all else. Perhaps she had been mistaken in her avoidance, she thought, running her fingers over the back of a red velvet chair. It smelt of the chateau there. If she closed her eyes she was at her mother’s knee, listening to her warm up her voice, watching her tune her harp.

Footsteps pattered nearby. She opened her eyes and spun to stare at the closed door. She could hear her own heartbeat in tandem with the soft steps she knew to be her mother’s. Closer. Closer. Then farther away. Her fingers reached back to find the soft velvet of the chair. It was hard to say if she was disappointed or relieved.

* * *

Jester put on one of her most obnoxious dresses for the party. It was the sort she would wear every day if the frills did not itch her shoulders after a while – pink and ruffled at the hem. She also took great care to tie a number of small ribbons into her hair. While she was fond of the result, the real pride she felt in her appearance was the knowledge that it would not be to Sharpe’s taste. Let him sneer. She would take pride in it.

The evening began with dinner. Each person was told where to sit, a novel concept to Jester, and formality dictated that she be seated between and across from old men she neither knew nor had any interest in speaking with. A large number of the men wore military coats and medals, while their wives dressed in gowns, sombre in colour. Marion sparkled among them all with her beautifully curled and pinned red hair, and her dress of pure white. Not for the first time in Jester’s life, she envied her mother.

The admiral on Jester’s right let out a barking laugh in response to a joke she did not completely understand. Something to do with the war.

The man across from her, Lord Something of Something, gave her a condescending smile she assumed was intended to be comforting.

“Now, Harper,” said the Lord to the Admiral, “I believe our companion here feels a little left out of the conversation.”

“Right you are, Maltby,” replied the Admiral.

Both men turned their attention to Jester as she sipped at her soup. It became clear that she was expected to offer some sort of insight.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was lost in thought.”

Admiral Harper laughed again while Lord Maltby gave her another one of those gently mocking smiles.

Blushing, Jester, asked, “What was the subject?”

“Money,” said Maltby. “As always. Our naval friend here thinks it is a shame to see the end of the war when he stood to profit so well from another year at sea.”

“And Maltby poked fun at my misfortune.”

“I merely stated that, if you wished to be a very rich man then you ought to have saved more than you spent on cards and women. See, the newly rich do not know how to manage their finances.”

“Oh,” said Jester.

Harper leant close and said, “Though I am sure you are happy to see the young men come home. Tell me, how is a fine young lady such as yourself still unmarried?”

Before Jester could reply, Maltby interjected with, “Perhaps she enjoys receiving the continued attentions of wrinkled old bachelors such as yourself.”

Jester cut through the ensuing laughter, saying, “I think it is a very good thing that the war is over.” Maltby and Harper met each other’s eyes before breaking out into even more raucous laughter.

As Jester’s bowl was taken away and replaced by a full plate, she wasted no time stuffing her mouth.

* * *

It was not dancing that followed but standing and talking. Two of the ladies took jealous turns in tickling the ivories of Sharpe’s grand piano. Neither of their attempts at besting the other offered much in the way of enjoyment. They might have been impressive pieces to play, but Jester was not impressed by them and that, she felt, robbed the music of its heart.

Still, a lack of pre-ordained socialisation gave Jester the space to hurry to her mother’s side. If she were still small enough to burrow in her skirts, then she would. What had once been a means for escaping detection by those she had meddled with now became an unattainable remnant of her childhood. If only she could beg and plead. If she could throw herself to her knees and beat the floor in tantrum. But she was expected to be a grown up and grownups did not act out.

“Is everything alright, darling?” asked Marion softly, running her eyes over every inch of Jester’s face for signs of discontent.

Jester plastered a smile and said, “Everything is wonderful. It is a very nice party.”

“It isn’t bad, I suppose.”

The lacklustre song of the grand piano permeated.

Jester asked, “When will you perform?”

“Sharpe does not approve of my public performances, I’m afraid.” Before Jester could swallow this terrible revelation, Marion winced. “Oh no. I just caught Lady Maltby’s eye.”

“Is she as bad as her husband?”

“Comparable.”

Lady Maltby approached the Lavorre women with far too forward a familiarity. “Marion, my dear,” she drawled, placing a gentle yet unwelcome hand on Jester’s elbow. “You cannot still be dressing your daughter like a girl. She is a young woman now.”

“Oh,” said Jester. “I am capable of dressing myself.”

Lady Maltby took a surprised step back, eyeing Jester from top to toe. “Is that so?” she said after a moment. “I suppose it suits your youthful face. Such round cheeks.”

Jester restrained from lifting a hand to touch her face or sucking in her cheeks.

“You’re like a child’s doll,” she finished haughtily. “Lovely to see you, Marion.”

As the Lady retreated, Marion pulled Jester close and whispered, “Awful woman.”

“Everybody here is awful,” she muttered, trying not to cry.

Marion’s expression shifted slightly. If Jester did not know her so well then, she might have missed it. But she did not miss it and she did not have time to question it because Sharpe called out at that moment to have Marion join him in a dance.

Beneath her breath, Jester said, “Nobody could dance to this.”

The tune picked up a little as a few couples gathered in a line, but the dance was stilted and placed. She wondered how things so wondrous as music and dance could be drained to become so dreary. Her fingers itched to liven the place up, but she had not cultivated any talent in music. She doubted a single soul in attendance would appreciate her own cacophonous brand of piano-playing.

Jester watched her mother turn and take the hand of the man to Sharpe’s left, as the steps of the dance dictated, while Sharpe watched with flared nostrils. The woman he stepped with was all but forgotten while his eyes fixed coldly on Marion Lavorre. Only when she was before him once more, her open palm against his, did he force a smile.

Hardened and suddenly incredibly certain, Jester marched over to the piano and, with a sweet smile, said, “Excuse me, ladies. Could I play the next song?”

The women looked between each other as if deciding whether to ally against their new, younger competitor, but their mutual disdain appeared to win out.

“Of course,” said the one who was playing at that moment.

The other said, “I am sure your new father would be very cross with us if we did not allow you to show off your accomplishments.”

Jester smiled on through her disgust. The women smiled back with equal authenticity.

Though she could not say for certain, it felt as though the current song continued on for a minute or two longer than it had been written. Jester supposed it was a final grasp at control. It did not matter. She did not intend to play for these women or any other guest. Her song was for Sharpe.

When the song finally finished, Jester made a big display of smoothing out her gloves and skirt, clearing her throat loudly, and running her fingers along the keys.

The woman who had just relinquished the piano stool said, “Would you like me to turn the sheet music for you?”

“No need,” said Jester brightly.

She took a deep breath, waiting for the silence to draw the attention of as many of Sharpe’s guests as possible. Then, without further ado, she slammed down. Winces echoed throughout the room, but they were quickly swallowed up by her continued playing. She wished her friends at the Myriad could have seen her in that moment. She had never played so poorly before. It was a proud moment to be sure.

Awkward conversation restarted while judgmental eyes lingered on her. She smiled brightly and began to sing along in a poor imitation of her mother’s operatic Italian. As Jester scanned the room she saw Lady Maltby lean in to whisper something undoubtedly awful into Marion’s ear. Flustered for a second, Jester’s weak singing voice warbled. It sounded terrible and so she leaned into it. Everybody gave her a glance at minimum. Everybody save for Sharpe. He spoke as though nothing unusual was happening, engaged in intent, and likely forced, conversation. After a few minutes of this, Jester resigned herself to losing to his stubborn nature.

“Thank you!” she called out, getting to her feet. “This has been a marvellous evening, but I am going to bed now.”

Scoffing and whispers followed her as she weaved between small clusters of unpleasant people. She kept her chin high until she was clear of onlookers and fell into despondency the moment she was alone.

* * *

Though she woke early the next day, Jester did not go down for breakfast. If Sharpe was saving his wrath for a more private setting, then she would not give him the satisfaction. He had been given his chance. No, she thought, she would wait until she knew Sharpe had left the house before seeking out food and her mother. She felt as though Marion, at least, deserved an apology.

The hours crept along and still she heard no sign of Sharpe’s leaving. Her hunger came close to forcing her downstairs, but a sudden eruption of raised voices gave her pause. While her room was not ideal for eavesdropping, it would have to do. She dropped to the floor and placed her ear between two floorboards.

Only the odd word broke through. All she could be certain of was that the voices belonged to her mother and Sharpe. Which party was more enraged, she could not say. Wasting no further time in hiding, Jester leapt to her feet and hurried down the stairs towards the argument.

Sharpe noticed her first.

“Ah!” he cried. “There she is. The devil herself.”

“Jester?” said Marion, spinning to face her.

“Is everything alright?” she asked.

“No,” said Sharpe at the same moment Marion said, “Yes.”

Shooting Sharpe a glare over her shoulder, Marion continued, “Everything is wonderful. We are going.”

“Going where?” said Jester.

“Away from this miserable place.”

Sharpe laughed bitterly. “And if you do, know that you will never be welcome back.”

Marion matched his bitterness as she spat, “Good. I hope to never see this house again.”

Dry-mouthed, Jester glanced between Sharpe and her mother. It did nothing to clarify the situation.

“Darling,” said Marion with a sudden softness. “Go and pack your things. A carriage is coming for us.”

“Really?” she asked, breathless.

“Yes.”

“Are you alright being left alone with him?”

Sharpe started, fixing Jester with the wildest stare she had ever seen. It irritated her more than frightened her. How could he be surprised at her believing him to be dangerous after all his previous behaviour?

“Yes,” said Marion. “Lord Sharpe and I have reached an accord.”

“Have we?” he snorted.

“ _ Yes _ .”

Jester was reluctant to leave her mother, but Sharpe was physically feeble, and his staff were weaving through the rooms, bringing out and packing up objects she recognised as her mother’s. She packed her own things carelessly. Dresses would be wrinkled and the corners of pages would be bent. It did not matter. She was rushing back down the stairs within ten minutes.

She found Sharpe first. His furious pacing in the parlour echoed into the hall.

“Where’s my mother?” she asked.

Sharpe spun on his heel. There was sweat dripping from his withered hairline. Jester stifled a laugh.

From the hallway behind, Marion called, “Jester?”

Jester gave Sharpe’s sweat-stained and trembling face one last glance before following the sound of her mother’s voice.

Marion was buttoning up her coat. A scattering of boxes and cases surrounded her like pigeons circling a stone angel. More boxes were being carried down the stairs.

“Mama, how are we going to transport all of this?” she asked.

“Nadine is going to take the bulk of it. She will join us in Norfolk in a few days with a caravan. You do still want to go to Norfolk, don’t you?”

“Yes! Absolutely.”

“Good,” said Marion shakily. “Because I have no other options.”

“It’s going to be wonderful. Just wonderful.”

Marion gave her a quick smile that faded into uncertainty. Clearing her throat, she said, “Now, make sure your things are ready to be packed onto the carriage at once. I don’t want you going without.”

“Alright.”

“And put your coat on, it’s very cold.”

“It’s still summer.”

“Just barely. I don’t want you getting sick.”

One of Sharpe’s footmen hurried through the front door, saying, “Miss Lavorres? Your carriage has arrived.”

* * *

Sharpe’s Estate grew smaller behind them, until the carriage turned a corner and lost all sight of it. It was then the reality of the situation finally sunk into Jester’s bones.

“I can’t believe it,” she said to herself, grinning out of the window.

“What was that, darling?” asked Marion.

Jester turned to face her mother and said, “I am just so incredibly happy. I was beginning to lose hope that you’d ever leave that terrible man.”

Marion laughed without any bitterness. “You know something, Jester?” she said. “Last night, as I watched you play, I realised that it was the proudest I have ever been of you.”

“ _ Mama _ .”

“I mean it. You were so brave and brilliant. I thought that, if I had just a shred of your bravery, then I would pack my things and march from that house at once.”

“You’re too proper for that. You wouldn’t make a silly scene.”

“The whole thing was a silly scene. I’m embarrassed to have even been there.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“Am I wrong?”

“Yes. You were trying to do what you thought was right.”

“The right thing would have been to follow you to Norfolk when I first sent you. Or at least when I first received your letters reassuring me that it was safe to come. I won’t make this mistake again, Jester. From this moment on, I put my trust in you and your judgement.”

Jester felt hot tears spill forth. She reached out and squeezed her mother’s hand.

“That is a lot of pressure,” she said.

Marion pulled on Jester’s hand so that she could cradle her head against her chest and breathed, “I cannot think of a person more worthy. My brilliant, brilliant girl.”

* * *

The Myriad had received no further word from Miss Lavorre since her initial letters. Caleb could not help but worry a little. He hoped that she had merely found herself too busy to respond or even that she had no interest in continuing their conversations. It was a greater comfort than the thought of her falling into the clutches of her mother’s fiancé.

Each day he waited to hear from her. Not for his own sake, of course, but just to confirm her safety. She did not even need to write a letter to  _ him personally _ , although he could not deny that he would enjoy sitting down to read more of her ramblings.

There was that tug on his heart again. He sighed and crossing his arms on the desk before him, buried his face entirely. The small optimistic section of his mind had thought perhaps that this particular reaction to Miss Lavorre would wane in her absence. Once again, pessimism proved correct.

Silly, he thought. Useless even.

From somewhere down the hall there was a sound which tricked his senses. Again, he was imagining her return. Hearing her voice in Kitty’s laugh or her footsteps in Hannah’s boots. He raised his head to correct his delusion, straining his ears. But there was her voice again. Had he finally gone mad?

He pushed himself upright and walked slowly towards his door, pressing his ear against it.

Her voice, unmistakably, rang out, “And where is Mr Widogast?”

His heart lurched. It was no delusion. Jester Lavorre had come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much!! I know lots of you wanted Caleb to show up at the party but I just felt like this was something Jester and Marion needed to deal with themselves. But Caleb is back now! With his own funky POV next chapter.
> 
> Please comment/kudos if you enjoyed <3 your validation means the world to me


	16. Reunion and Repression

“Pray, pray be composed, and do not betray what you feel to every body present” – Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

* * *

With a fortifying inhale, Caleb pushed down on his door handle and stepped into the bright corridor. The light from the foyer seemed to drift towards him. He blinked hard, and then he saw her. Hair so black it looked almost blue in the midday sun shining through the windows.

“There he is!” cried Miss Therad.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw where Miss Lavorre stood laughing with Miss Therad, Miss Cree, and a woman who he had never met before. She was older than the rest, dark red hair piled up into a carefully balanced bun, wearing a white dress that was both understated and eye-catching. There was a grace about her which threw Caleb for a moment, but when she smiled the crinkle of her nose was that of a Lavorre.

“Madam Lavorre?” he said, bowing his head in greeting.

“Mr Widogast!” cried Jester. “Come, meet my mother.”

The ladies widened their circle so that Caleb might stand comfortably between Miss Therad and Miss Lavorre. Across from him stood the assumed Marion Lavorre. She gave him a quirked smile and, with a curtsey, subtly ran her eyes over his person.

“It is wonderful to meet you,” she said. “I understand that you are a dear friend of my daughter’s.”

“I hope so,” he replied weakly.

He felt as though he had been stripped down to the skin in that moment, as Marion gave a satisfied nod and moved her attention on. His palms began to sweat, and his mind became consumed by wondering if it would be too obvious a sign of nerves to wipe his hands on his trousers.

Miss Therad glanced his way and said, “I wonder if we should take our conversation to the garden.”

“But what if we miss father?” asked Miss Lavorre.

Madam Lavorre broke the circle to take her daughter’s arm, speaking gently, “I think I would benefit from a bit of fresh air before facing your father.”

Miss Lavorre did not look entirely convinced. She turned to Caleb and said, “Do you know when he will be back?”

“I do not, I’m afraid. I did not even know he had left the premises.”

“I sent word,” said Miss Lavorre sadly.

Her sadness radiated, even as her mother pulled her away. Caleb felt an invisible rope go taut between them and allowed it to snap, standing firm.

“Mr Widogast,” cooed Miss Therad. “Will you walk with me?”

Her hand was on his elbow before he could answer. She guided him out of the front door behind the others, keeping a distance to allow for a semblance of privacy.

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” she whispered.

“I have that look about me,” he replied. “It is an unfortunate feature of my natural appearance.”

“Then you look as though you’ve seen two ghosts.”

His gaze drifted ahead to where Miss Lavorre linked her arms with her mother and Miss Cree. He felt Miss Therad’s own gaze fixed on the side of his face. If the air had not been so cool, he might have also felt his cheeks burn.

He had unwillingly imagined Miss Lavorre’s return many times over the past two odd weeks, but he had not prepared himself to be thrown headfirst into the thick of it. Not with Madam Lavorre and Miss Therad piercing his soul with magpie eyes. He had _hoped_ it would be in the dark of his office. But what use were complaints? What was his discomfort in the face of Miss Lavorre’s undeniable success?

His mouth quirked into an involuntary half smile. If Miss Therad noticed it, she did not comment.

He looked down at her and said, “Miss Therad, I know that you take great pleasure in your wild theories, but I do hope that you will not bother Miss Lavorre with them.”

“No?”

“I would not want to make her uncomfortable. Should she be guided towards your belief that I hold some deeper affection. Or that she has behaved improperly.”

“That is very thoughtful of you, sir,” she said, words thick with irony.

“I cannot pretend that I am not in any way concerned for my own comfort. Regardless, this fancy of yours is not something that Miss Lavorre needs to be troubled with.”

Miss Therad’s brow furrowed. “Mr Widogast,” she said. “I hope you are not implying that I am not wholeheartedly devoted to my friend’s happiness.”

“On the contrary. I am counting on it.”

As they walked on, Miss Therad pursed her lips around an invisible lemon. He was beginning to feel satisfied in his victory when Miss Lavorre slipped free of her companions and, spinning on her heel, called out, “What are you two doing back there?” Suddenly Caleb felt anything but victorious.

The four women walked clumsily with linked arms, Miss Therad joining on beside Miss Cree. Caleb placed his hands behind his back and kept his distance. As their route took them from the sprawling lawn into the narrow paths of the rose garden, the women were forced to split into pairs, and Caleb found the space behind them to level his breathing.

Miss Lavorre’s voice carried as she pointed out every beautiful thing to her mother.

“These were all father’s choosing!” she exclaimed. “I only added the statues.”

Three stone busts of anonymous women, all done in the Greek style, dotted the garden. One amongst the white roses, one amongst the red, and another amongst the orange. Caleb had to admit that they added something to the scenery, though he did not know what meaning they held. If any. He wondered if he should ask Miss Lavorre. He wondered, too, if his voice could carry that simple question without betraying his heart to the whole garden.

Madam Lavorre said, “Your father did always have a good eye for beauty.”

A silence fell upon the group as it became clear that this was not the response Miss Lavorre had been hoping for. Her pout was unbearable, even from a distance. Suffocation settled back in as he fiddled with his cravat. Meanwhile, Madam Lavorre pulled her daughter close to her side and said something too softly for Caleb to hear.

Once her lips stopped moving, he cleared his throat and raised his voice to say, “You know, I hate to do this, but there is something I must see to at once.”

Miss Lavorre turned her pout on him, and his willpower wavered.

“I won’t be long,” he promised.

“Alright,” she said glumly.

“Truly. Blink and I will be back.” She squeezed her eyes tightly for a second before widening them once more. Her accusatory stare was enough to coax a chuckle from him. “Perhaps a few more blinks. But not too many.”

Her pout twisted into a coy smile and he knew that if he did not leave that instant he would be hard put to tear himself from her presence ever again.

* * *

The ride to Labenda was almost enough to shake him back to his senses. The cold air whipped his cheeks like a grounding slap to the face. His vision was narrow, and his destination was certain. It was a pleasant reprieve. At the Evening Nip, he dismounted and gave the stable boy a firm smile as he handed over the reins. His grey-speckled steed gave a snort and Caleb, in spite of his previous hurry, paused to run a gentle hand over the creature’s soft nose.

“Sorry to push you so hard, Jannik,” he breathed. “I will give you an entire bushel of apples when we are home.”

Jannik was steered away but Caleb thought he saw a glimmer in the steed’s black eyes – something akin to understanding. Or perhaps he was simply a mad man. He gave a snort of his own and ventured into the inn. Down the back stairs and across the floor of the hidden barroom. George Therad raised his glass by way of greeting. Caleb gave him a nod without slowing. The only witnesses to his movements were the Swedes, the Therad brothers, and Miss Sheed behind the bar and so he felt safe to open the door to the broom closet and close it behind him without rousing any questions. Stepping over an empty bucket, Caleb took his knuckles to the wall and knocked three times, paused, then knocked another five times. It was a rhythm he knew well by this point and it came to him without thought.

When there was no response, he raised his voice enough to call out, “Dosal? It’s Mr Widogast. I’m quite alone.”

He heard a scrape of chair legs on stone flooring and waited patiently for Dosal to crack open the wall long enough for Caleb to slip inside. Either that, or for the man to slip away through the trap door beneath his desk and take a boat directly to London.

He did not feel confident to bet on either scenario but, finally, Dosal showed a slither of his face. He peered into the closet beyond, perhaps trying to verify Caleb’s assertion of coming alone. Once satisfied, he stepped back and allowed Caleb entry.

Dosal’s Labenda office was a far cry from his one at the Myriad. The furniture was cheap and sparse. There was little air flow, leaving the place with a musty smell. It was somehow sweltering and damp all at once. Caleb pulled off his coat and discarded it on a wooden chair by the entrance which had not been used as anything more than a coat rack in all the time Caleb had known Dosal.

“I was not aware,” said Dosal as he circled back to his desk chair, “That we had any pressing business.”

Caleb took the chair opposite and said, “Then you are not aware that your daughter has returned to the Myriad?”

By way of response, Dosal bent down, opened a drawer, and returned with two glasses and a bottle of amber liquid. Without a label, the contents were a mystery beyond the colour and likely highly alcoholic nature. Dosal filled both glasses just beneath the brim and pushed one towards Caleb, swirling the other in his right hand.

Caleb took a small sip and was pleasantly surprised by its sweetness. He was certain that the taste was misleading, that it masked a hidden strength. He took another sip and waited for Dosal to speak.

“Of all the people I thought might come to drag me back home, I never suspected you, Widogast.”

Caleb tilted his head thoughtfully as Dosal continued to swirl. “You think I am here to drag you?”

“Drag me, guilt me, beg me. It is all the same.”

With that, Dosal poured the entire contents of his glass down his throat and, grimacing slightly, topped himself up.

Caleb said, “I know that you are aware this is not something you can run from. At least not for long.”

“And what about _you_?”

Caleb stilled, feeling very much like a cornered rabbit. Dosal had the same accusatory stare as his daughter. This realisation did nothing to comfort him.

“What about me?” he asked as casually as he could.

“Do you believe you can outrun your past forever? Whatever secrets it might hold.”

Caleb worried the hefty lump in his throat. With his eyes fixed on the table, swallowing hard, he said, “You are well aware of my history.”

“Parts of it certainly. But you can hardly expect me to believe that a young man with as sharp a mind as yours would happily devote himself to my business if his only concern was the law. With the salary I pay you, you could have invested in a home or a business of your own.”

“I appreciate your protection.”

“And I have protected you for almost five years now.”

“Is this your way of letting me go?”

“Of course not. If you are determined to remain in hiding until your old age, far be it from me to be above profiting off of that.”

Caleb grimaced and took a deep swig of the glass before him. Then another.

“My past is inconsequential,” he said finally, putting down his empty glass. “It is your past that is sitting in wait at the Myriad. A woman who you have wronged and a daughter who is desperate to see you. Will you be there?”

Dosal raised his eyebrows and, raising his own glass in a toast, said, “You are a hard man to distract, Widogast.”

“That was not an answer.”

“No. It wasn’t.”

Caleb knew a dismal when he saw one. With a curt nod, he picked up his coat and went on his way.

* * *

Caleb kept to his promise to Jannik and did not return to the house right away when he arrived back at the Myriad. For a good ten minutes, he lingered in the stables, offering up apples. It was only slightly an excuse. He was not running. Not at that moment at any rate. He was merely collecting his thoughts. Then again, perhaps Dosal was simply doing the same. Perhaps he should have been more merciful in his judgement. But Miss Lavorre’s sorrow permeated all. It did not seem to him as though any reason was enough to cause it.

Sighing, he gave Jannik one last pat and made good on his other promise – to be back soon.

The women had retired to the parlour with tea. As he lingered in the doorway he noticed, with an aching heart, that there were six cups set out. He could only assume that one was for himself and the other for Dosal.

Miss Cree caught his eye first as she was the only one properly facing him. He gave her a nod and she responded with a twitch of a smile. He appreciated her subtlety. If only for a moment, he wanted to remain unseen. To get a lay of the land; read the mood of the room.

Miss Lavorre was speaking emphatically to her mother. It spoke to Caleb of nerves, but nothing more sinister than that. Madam Lavorre’s face was obscured, but he saw her delicate fingers run delicately through her daughter’s hair. He felt comforted by the act. As though it was his hair and his nerves that were being soothed. It was only then that he realised he had been concerned. A small part of his mind had been searching for any indication of coldness on Madam Lavorre’s part. But the gentle movements of her hand spoke of love. He hoped very much that he was not mistaken.

Feeling as though he could no longer defend his watching from afar, he said, “Good Afternoon,” and ventured into the room.

“Mr Widogast!” cried Miss Lavorre, hopping excitedly to her feet. Madam Lavorre followed suit while Miss Therad merely quirked an eyebrow. “You were gone for over an hour. The tea has likely gone cold.”

With a soft bow of his head, he said, “Forgive me. I must admit that I was distracted in the stables for a time.”

As Caleb took a seat on an empty armchair, and the Lavorre women retook their own seats on the pale green couch, Miss Cree asked, “How does a person get distracted in the stables?”

Answering on his behalf, Miss Lavorre said, “Probably just… talking to the horses?”

He smirked. “Something like that.”

“Did the horses have anything interesting to say?” said Miss Therad.

Caleb turned his smirk upon her and said, “Only terrible things about you.”

Miss Lavorre and Miss Cree laughed in tandem. He had to wonder how he could have ever mistaken one for the other. Miss Cree laughed with a tinkle. Miss Lavorre laughed with her whole head and shoulders.

“Madam Lavorre,” he pressed on, desperate for further distraction, “I was not in the right mind to greet you earlier. I apologise.”

“It is no matter,” she replied sweetly. “I understand that you were not expecting us. It seems Jester’s letter failed to arrive.”

“It seems so.”

“I hope that you have settled your business.”

“As do I.”

Madam Lavorre narrowed her eyes on him once more while Miss Lavorre interjected, “This is very boring. Can we talk about something more interesting?”

“What were you discussing before I arrived?” he asked.

Miss Therad rolled her eyes and said, “My upcoming nuptials.”

“And how you will style your hair on the wedding day,” added Miss Cree softly.

Her gaze never leaving him, Madam Lavorre said, “What do you think, Mr Widogast?”

“About Miss Therad’s upcoming nuptials or her potential hair style?”

“Either.”

“Well,” he said carefully. “I am glad that Miss Therad will have a husband to torment in my place, and I think that she would look lovely with a floral headpiece.”

Miss Therad fell into peals of laughter while Miss Cree clamped her hand over her own mouth to stifle her sniggers. After a moment, the conversation circled back to seriousness. From what Caleb picked up, Mr Keyes’ family would be coming to meet his future wife rather soon and, beneath all the laughter and talk of hair styling, Miss Therad was rattled by the prospect.

He wanted to offer some reassurance, but he did not want the room’s attention back upon him. Instead he sat in silence, sipping at cold tea.

* * *

The sky outside had turned burnt orange before their tea party was disturbed. Mr Dosal made no attempt to sneak in as Caleb had done. Rather, the opposite. The front door slammed so loudly behind him that almost everyone in the parlour jumped up. Madam Lavorre alone stayed sitting. It was strange, thought Caleb, that she looked almost serene.

An uncomfortable handful of seconds passed before, stumbling, and smelling strongly of that sweet amber liquor, Mr Dosal appeared. 

“Sorry,” he said in a trembling voice. “I did not mean to miss your arrival.”

In a moment, Miss Lavorre had thrown her arms around him. He quickly slumped against her, arms wrapped tightly around her back while he burrowed his face in her shoulder. At a glance, a stranger would be forgiven for mistaking her for the parent and him for the child.

Madam Lavorre stood with slow grace, pulling her shawl tightly.

“Mr Dosal,” she said. Dosal glanced up and over Miss Lavorre’s shoulder. “It is good to see you.”

With what appeared to be great reluctance, Dosal released his daughter and replied, “And you, Marion. You need not address me as Dosal. I believe we are beyond formalities.”

“Perhaps,” said Marion with a shrug.

Caleb shared a look with Miss Cree before Miss Therad took the lead, saying, “Thank you for the tea, Jester. I think the three of us ought to be off now.”

If Caleb had suspected that his presence might have been of any assistance, he would have remained. In spite of the uncomfortable atmosphere. But the newly reunited family would benefit from privacy. He gave Miss Lavorre an apologetic smile as he slipped out after Miss Cree and Miss Therad.

The two women were about to make their way upstairs when Caleb felt compelled to call out for Miss Therad.

“Yes?” she asked, leaning over the railing so that her face was level with his own.

He walked closer so that he might disturb those they had just abandoned in the parlour.

“I only wanted to say,” he said softly, “That you need not worry about meeting Keyes’ family. You would be a prize for any man, let alone a man of Keyes’ reputation and… disposition.”

“And appearance,” she added.

“Yes. That too.”

She smiled and reached out her hand to give his shoulder a firm but quick grip, whispering, “Thank you.”

* * *

Caleb settled into his office with parchment and pen even though he knew well enough that no work would be done. No person, no matter how deluded, could deny that his head was full of _her_. What she must be feeling or thinking. If he ought to have stayed. If he ought to have left sooner. If he was a fool for thinking that any of that mattered to her right now.

He was about to give up. To ask that his dinner be sent to his room and to settle in for an early night. That was when his office door swung open without any knock of warning.

He knew it would be her silhouette that greeted him, though that did nothing to settle his rampant heart.

“Miss Lavorre,” he said, hating himself for how he jumped to his feet at once, how he sounded breathless at the sight of her regardless of it being their third encounter of the day.

“Are you busy?” she asked, stepping into the room, and kicking the door closed behind her. Her question, it seemed, was merely a formality. Caleb struggled to swallow a smile. “Only we haven’t spoken properly yet.”

“No. I suppose we haven’t.”

He only sank back down into his seat when Miss Lavorre had taken hers. As she did, he noticed a book under her arm.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Oh!” she cried, snatching the book, and thrusting it towards him. “You wanted a book recommendation. This is definitely the most historical of all my stories.”

All attempts at not smiling failed. He beamed as he accepted her offering.

“Thank you,” he said with unintended reverence, running a finger along the spine. “I look forward to reading it.”

“It isn’t much. I wanted to thank you properly, with a real gift, but I don’t know what you like except for work.”

“This is more than enough.”

“It isn’t.”

The seriousness of her tone gave him pause. Whatever retort he had at the ready, melted on the tip of his tongue.

“So,” she said, leaning her elbows on the desk between them. “What have I missed?”

“You do not wish to speak about your own adventures?”

“Not really. Not right now. I’m a little bit exhausted if I’m honest.”

“And your mother and father?”

She shrugged. “They’re still talking. I left them shortly after you did.”

“That was probably wise. I am sure they have things to say to one another that their child, no matter how old, ought not to hear.”

“Mr Widogast,” she said, scowling at him. “Did you just call me old?”

He let out a bark of laughter. Her scowl collapsed in on itself as she scrunched up her nose and giggled.

Fiddling with the book she had given him, Caleb said, “You should get some rest if you can. I cannot imagine you have had much time to relax while you were away.”

“No,” she said as though she had just realised it. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, she cried, “You are completely right. I don’t think I got a single good night’s sleep the whole time. You’re very smart, you know that?”

“I think it is more that I am an expect in exhaustion.”

“Yes. You should sleep more.”

“That is accurate.”

They shared another smile and an almost comfortable stretch of silence. Miss Lavorre was the one to break it.

“Well,” she said. “I should follow your advice and try to rest. I can always bother you tomorrow.”

“You are more than welcome to. I should get started on this,” he said, waving the book.

He watched her turn and get halfway out of the door before he felt compelled, for the second time that day, to call out.

“Oh, and Miss Lavorre?”

“Yes,” she said brightly, skipping back into the office.

“It is good to have you back.”

She almost looked surprised for a second before straightening her back and replying, “It is good to be back, Mr Widogast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! I really wanted to get one more chapter up before 2021 and honestly a huge part of me accomplishing that is how inspired I am by your wonderful comments! Please do comment and/or kudos if you enjoyed <3 <3 <3 I appreciate you all so much


	17. Dining on Diplomacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you @oftennot my beautiful beta who I am lowkey in love with <3

“Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all,” Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

* * *

Jester let her eyes flutter shut for a second, exhaling, inhaling, concentrating. This required patience. Delicacy. Eyes open and tongue between her teeth, she bent forwards and took the shot. The ball rolled fast and wide of the hoop. With a groan of frustration, she threw her mallet to the floor.

Behind her, Mr Widogast let out a warm laugh.

“This game is so stupid!” she cried. “How lightly do you need to tap the ball to get any points?”

“We can switch to cards if you prefer,” said Mr Widogast.

“No,” she sighed. “No. I’d rather be outside.”

“We can play cards outside. They might get swept away on the breeze…”

Jester turned to smile at Mr Widogast. He stood, flustered, mallet in one hand while the other fiddled with his collar. His determination to keep her mind occupied warmed her heart, but there it really was no use. However the reunion between her mother and father had ended, they had not shared another word since. If one entered a room in which the other happened to be in, one would make their muttered excuses and leave. It had been three awful and tense days. The only comfort she found was out of the house and poor Mr Widogast had been forced to entertain her.

Kitty and Hannah were preparing for the imminent Keyes family, her mother was fidgeting and window-watching, while her father was overly cheerful by way of compensating for the awkwardness. Though, she had to admit, even if there had been other options for company, Mr Widogast would have been her first choice in distraction. He did not pry, push, or even casually question her. When she declared that she wanted a day of mindless games, he delivered without hesitation. She only felt guilty for keeping him from the work that was no doubt piling up in his dingy office.

As she watched his endearing fumbling, she could not help but take a handful of steps to stand by his side so she might say, “I am happy with croquet. Thank you.”

“It does not bother me what game we play,” he said, his forefinger burrowing ever deeper into the space between his cravat and his pale neck. “My luck does shift. I am destined to lose at croquet as much as I am at cards. I’m not bad at chess.”

She made an involuntary face of disgust and he, as though expecting it, let out another laugh.

“That is not quite what I meant by my thanks. I wanted to thank you for keeping me company, for sending me that book, and for… simply being there. Whenever I need you. I know I have asked a lot of you.”

“No,” he said quickly. Then, clearing his throat and levelling his voice, he continued, “I do not feel put upon. You were right when you said I needed to spend more time in the sunlight.”

“You are very bad at accepting gratitude,” she grumbled.

“Only when it is unfounded, Miss.”

Trying not to roll her eyes, she said, “Go on. It’s your turn.”

Mr Widogast had not been humble in appraising his skill at croquet. He was, if possible, worse at the game than she was. While she swung too hard, he swung far too gently, at times failing to knock the ball any further than a few inches.

They continued to play, half-heartedly, until dusk approached and it was time for dinner. Though no formal schedule had been set, Jester had taken to eating with each parent in rotation. Tonight, she would eat with her mother.

As they gathered up the hoops and balls, Mr Widogast said, “Would you like to play again tomorrow?”

As innocuous a question as it was, it prompted her to let out a deep sigh.

“No,” she said. “Tomorrow, mother and I are going to meet Nadine in Norfolk to look at houses.”

“That is exciting,” he replied, though the question was apparent in his tone. Her disagreeing eyes darted over to him. “Perhaps not.”

“I wish she would stay here.”

“Do you really? Haven’t the past few days been enough of a burden on you?”

She shrugged to avoid admitting he had a point.

He bent down to pluck the last hoop from the grass and said, “Why don’t I finish putting this away? Your mother is likely waiting for you.”

Jester realised that she had done very little to help in the clearing as she passed over the single ball she had collected. An apology danced on her tongue, but she thought better of sharing it. Mr Widogast would only brush it off.

Instead, she said, “Thank you.”

A twitch of a smile ghosted his lips and a sudden urge to kiss his cheek overcame her. But he was far too sensible for such improper behaviour. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth as she bid him goodbye, all the way into the house and up to her mother’s rooms.

It was still strange to see Marion surrounded by such sparse décor. The room was so wide and white, with pale wooden floors and a wall occupied almost entirely by windows. Save for Jester’s, this seemed to be the finest room at the Myriad. She wondered if it would have sat empty forever, waiting for Marion to fill it.

A table, just big enough for two, sat laden with food before one of the windows. The orange of dusk danced with the red of her mother’s hair, making her an angel, spreading jam on bread.

“Jester!” she greeted brightly. “I was rather enjoying watching you and Mr Widogast out the window.”

“Mama!” cried Jester in mock offence, taking the jam-coated bread offered to her and sitting in the empty chair opposite, “All this time I thought I inherited my skill for prying from father.”

Marion laughed charitably and they began to eat in relative harmony. Then, Marion asked, “Are you excited for tomorrow?”

Jester met her mother’s eye and could not help but say, “Yes. I’ve not actually gotten the chance to see Norfolk yet.”

“Well, if all goes according to plan, you will be seeing a lot of it whenever you come to stay with me.”

“Mama,” she began.

Marion cut her off with a, “Jester.”

“I don’t see why you can’t stay here.”

“I have already overstayed my welcome, I am sure.”

“That’s not true. You know that father has always wanted you here.”

“Want is not reality’s most constant companion, my darling.” Jester made a face. Marion pressed on, dropping her fork so she might reach out for Jester’s hand, “I did not lie when I told you that I would trust your judgment, but I want you to be truthful with me. Do you believe it would be best for me to stay in this house?”

Jester gave an exaggerated shrug which, she knew, was all the answer her mother needed.

* * *

The road to Norfolk unfolded and unfolded and unfolded until Jester began to feel uncharacteristically sick from all of the motion. She glanced at her mother and saw a frown.

“Mama?” she said gently, reaching to squeeze her hand.

A good handful of minutes passed before she replied, “It is a lot farther away than I thought.”

Nadine did not break down into tears and pull the Lavorre women into her arms when they arrived. She did not, in fact, even waste enough time to ask how their journey was. As they approached her outside of the first house they had planned to see, Nadine said, immediately, “This one is no good.”

“No?” asked Marion.

“The whole lower floor is infested with damp. Your chest will not do well.”

The next three houses were all equally wrong for an array of different reasons that Jester paid very little mind. They were all nice houses, she supposed, but they were cramped and spoke of the societal descent Jester had pushed her mother into. If she would simply stay at the Myriad, in the estate’s second-best room with not a hint of damp or crumbling floorboards, then all would be well.

After the fifth house proved a failure, the three women bundled themselves into the carriage. First stop, Nadine’s inn.

As they rattled along, Nadine said, “I’m sorry, Marion. I’ll put my ear to the pavement and try to find somewhere more appropriate. Perhaps we can look again next week?”

Marion sighed, “The longer we wait, the more I will be required to pay in storage.”

“Well,” said Jester, “You could always keep your things at the Myriad. Just for now. Just until you find somewhere you like.”

“That sounds a little too close to moving in for my liking,” said Marion.

Jester rounded on Nadine, “At the very least, you should come and stay with us. Unless you were planning to literally put your ear to the pavement?”

“Cheeky girl,” said Nadine without any real malice. “I am not being pulled into your ploys.”

Once the carriage slowed to a stop, Nadine, along with her goodbyes, fixed Marion with an unshaking stare and a promise of, “Next week. Next week I will have the most perfect house for you to look at.”

Jester had rather hoped that the uncomfortable silences between her and her mother would have ceased the moment they left Sharpe behind in the dust. It was not to be. Once the carriage door slammed closed behind Nadine, they were thrust once more into a silence made of mutually assured argument.

Jester turned her face towards the window so that she could cry, unseen. So long as she didn’t sniffle, nobody would be any the wiser. Her mind raced towards comforting thoughts as a single tear escaped her. To her surprise, the imagined reassurances she landed upon came to her in Mr Widogast’s voice.

_ Do not forget all that you have already accomplished, _ she thought.  _ You have saved your mother from a bad marriage and you have brought her across the country. That is nothing to sniff at. _

She was not sure if she had heard Mr Widogast say any of this, but it was enough, in that moment, to imagine that he might. No further tears fell.

* * *

As per her informal schedule, Jester dined with her father that evening. He was somehow both more difficult and far easier to share a meal with than her mother. His false joy was like a stone stuck in her shoe, digging in further and further with each step. Yet his inability to stop himself from babbling provided a sweet respite from the pained silences or near fallouts with her mother. Because of this, she was happy to allow him to engage her in empty conversations for the remainder of their meal. That is, if her father himself had not slipped cautiously into a far more substantial topic.

“So,” he said, “How was the housing search?”

She shrugged and replied, “Not good. They were all too damp or too dry or too something or other.”

Dosal nodded, took a bite, nodded again, then said, “And your mother is set on Norfolk?”

“It seems so.”

“Jester,” he said, with a softness that almost startled her. She dropped her cutlery and fixed him with her full attention. He laughed nervously before continuing, “I understand that your mother does not want to share my home. I must admit that it has not been the most comfortable circumstance for anyone. However, if she is not opposed, I do own several homes in the village of Labenda itself.”

Jester was grateful that she had dropped her cutlery beforehand, otherwise they might have fallen from her hands so quickly they would have scarred her plate.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she demanded.

“I did not know if the offer would be appreciated.”

“That is so stupid! What do you have to lose by offering?”

“My dignity,” he suggested, topping up his wine glass.

“Dignity is  _ very  _ stupid. What good is dignity if it only causes misery?”

Dosal’s eyebrow twitched and, with a smile, he said, “Do you want to hear something amusing?”

Jester scowled. She did not want him to divert the conversation, but she was curious. “Alright,” she said.

“Today, I sold a horse to man named Mr Trot.”

Jester bit down hard on the inside on her cheeks until she could not stifle her laughter any longer. She found, too, that she could not bring herself to mind his self-satisfied smirk. Then, just when she thought that he had defeated her, he offered up his surrender, unprompted.

“Tomorrow,” he said firmly. “The three of us will have lunch tomorrow and we will discuss the housing situation then.”

Her laughter faded to a grin. In a flash, she was out of her chair and wrapping her arms tightly around her father.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she cried.

He gave her forearm a soft pat and replied, “Anything for you, my dear.”

* * *

Happier than she had been since leaving Bath, Jester skipped to Mr Widogast’s office door. She pushed it open to find him sitting, as expected, pouring over paper in the near darkness. The first few times she had done this, since returning to the Myriad, he had started like a rabbit. Now that he had grown accustomed to her, he reacted with a simple raise of his head and smile.

“Miss Lavorre,” he said, “How might I help you?”

She hesitated. The paper on his desk was piled rather high, and she had consumed so much of his time already. Sensing her apprehension and following her line of sight, Mr Widogast gestured to his paperwork and said, “Oh, this? Do not worry about this. It is nothing that cannot wait.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

As though to prove his point, he dropped his pen and pushed the pile to the side of the desk. With clasped hands, he waited expectedly for her to continue.

“I won’t keep you long,” she said, crossing the room in two long strides, and taking a seat. “I have some good news to share and a favour to ask.”

“Can I ask for the good news first?”

She beamed and leaned forwards to say, “Yes! Father has agreed to have lunch with me and mama tomorrow. He’s going to offer her one of his Labenda houses.”

“Oh, that is  _ very  _ good news.”

“I know.”

“I hope that it goes well. I know how easily emotions can cloud judgement.”

“Well, that brings me to the favour. I was wondering, if you don’t have plans for lunch tomorrow, you might join us. Then you can provide some of your famous unemotional, logical, sensible judgement.” Mr Widogast gave a conceding nod. “I’m slightly beyond hoping that they’ll see each other across the table and remember that they’re made for each other. For now, I’ll be happy if we can just reach an agreement by the end of the meal.”

“Well, I am not well-versed in property deals, but I will help however I can.”

“You will?”

“Of course.”

A sharp pain surged through her chest, as though her heart was bursting. She wanted to stay with him, to open her heart, to tell him every awful thing about her stay with Sharpe, her niggling anxieties about playing diplomat between her parents. The pile of paperwork caught her eye.

“Thank you,” she said. “Do you want some company while you work? I could draw you or read over your shoulder. Oh! I could help you. Do you need help? Not that I really understand what you do, but you could give me the easiest tasks.”

“There is really no need for you to go to any trouble.”

“Please. I want to.”

He sighed, “Very well. How about sealing and addressing letters?”

“I can do that! I’ve sealed and address a lot of letters. At least twenty.”

“Then you will be marvellous.”

It took him a moment to shuffle through the papers, plucking the unfinished contracts from the completed letters. Jester readied herself while he did so, seizing a pen and twiddling it between her fingers.

“Alright,” he said eventually, “I have a list of addresses here. If you match those to the addressee at the top of each letter, and seal them with this wax, then just pop them on this pile when they’re done.”

Jester nodded along to his instructions, eyes darting to each corner of Mr Widogast’s desk as he pointed.

“Got it,” she said.

She made sure to work carefully, double checking every address. It would not do to make mistakes and leave him to fix them. They worked together quietly, almost peacefully. But Jester could not stomach total silence. She was not sure how long she had been humming when she caught herself.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be,” he replied, not looking up. “It’s nice.”

With a small smile, she went back to her humming. A second later, he was humming along with her. Her smile grew wider. When she went to bed that night, her cheeks were sore.

* * *

Jester spent the following morning with her mother. Marion did not seem altogether convinced that living under Dosal’s roof, albeit a different one from the Myriad, was a good idea. Still, she allowed Jester to do her hair, to pin it up and sprinkle it with sapphire-blue ribbons.

“You should wear your deep blue dress,” said Jester.

“That is a little much for lunch don’t you think?”

“But it looks so lovely with your red hair.”

“Jester, I am not trying to impress your father. Even you must have realised that whatever we once had between us is long gone.”

So, she had told Mr Widogast that she was beyond hoping that her parents would rekindle their romance over bread and jam. That didn’t mean she didn’t hope it might happen eventually. Next week, for instance.

“I just want you to look nice!” she cried. “I don’t have another motive.”

Marion wore a blue dress after all, though she picked one that was paler and simpler than the dark velvet Jester had chosen. Not that it really mattered. Marion Lavorre was incapable of looking anything less than perfect.

The effect was clear the moment Jester and Marion approached the lunch table. Her father, who stood in wait with Mr Widogast, gaped a little. Jester was satisfied. They shared bows and curtseys. It was all very proper and ridiculous, as far as Jester was concerned. The ladies sat first, followed by the men. They poured their tea first too and were given first choice of meats and bread rolls. As far as formality went, this aspect was not so bad. The silence, however, was suffocating. Jester glanced over at Mr Widogast who looked back with apologetic eyes.

“So,” she said. “Everyone looks very nice. I like that jacket, father.”

“Oh,” he replied, sounding a little surprised by this sudden compliment. “Thank you. I am sure you have seen me wear it before.”

Marion gave a wry smile and said, “Perhaps your sobriety has given you a glow.”

“Mama!” cried Jester.

“No, no,” chuckled her father. “It was a fair barb.”

Jester looked back to Mr Widogast who simply shrugged.

Dosal pressed on, “Shall we get down to business then? There is no need to make this any more painful than it needs to be. Mr Widogast here has agreed to act as an impartial mediator.”

“I’m not sure he’s impartial,” said Marion.

“Why not?” demanded Jester.

“He is my employee,” agreed Dosal. “But I can assure you he isn’t invested in our living arrangements.”

“That is true,” said Mr Widogast. “My only horse in this race is that everyone walks away happy. Now, the proposition put forth by Mr Dosal is that Madam Lavorre takes ownership of one of his Labenda properties. Madam Lavorre, how does this suit you?”

“I am afraid I’m not quite sure,” said Marion.

Jester had to bite back another demand of ‘why not.’ It was not her place to mediate this time.

Dosal said, “I will put it in your name.”

“Hiding your assets?” replied Marion.

“I acquired all my properties through perfectly legal transactions.”

“And the money used to purchase them?”

“Inconsequential.”

Mr Widogast cleared his throat very loudly, bringing all attention back to him.

“Madam Lavorre, would you feel more comfortable purchasing the house from Mr Dosal? That way, it is less that he has fiddled with paperwork and more that you have simply… bought a house.”

“That sounds wonderful, Mr Widogast, but I doubt I can afford to buy any of Mr Dosal’s properties,” she said.

“Well,” said Dosal. “I can give you the money.”

Marion scowled at him, asking, “How is that different from just changing the deed?”

“Because, my dear Marion, nobody would need to know from whom you acquired the funds. Should the authorities come beating down my door, noose in hand, you and your home will be free from suspicion.”

Jester watched as her mother fell into a momentarily quiet consideration. Then, with a long, hard look at Jester, Marion said, “Fine. I cannot say I love it, but fine.”

“Brilliant,” said Mr Widogast. “I will fetch the necessary paperwork. Excuse me.”

“I’ll come with you!” cried Jester.

Giving him no time to argue, she was out of her chair and at his heels within a second. Once they were in the hall, he asked, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes! Yes! I just wanted to thank you! You did so wonderfully.”

“I did very little.”

“Stop it! Let me thank you, alright? You were wonderful. That is a fact.”

He blushed, fingers going straight for his cravat. Again, Jester was forced to stifle a rising desire to kiss his pink cheek.

“Well,” she said hastily. “That was all I wanted to say. You can go and get the papers now.”

She pushed through the door and returned to the table. Her mother and father did not seem to have spoken, but there was a new ease to this brand of silence. A weight had been lifted. Now, where was Mr Widogast?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! please kudos/comment if you enjoyed! <3


	18. To Be Needed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to @grandfatherclock for betaing this chapter! <3

“We are all fools in love,” – Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

* * *

It took a week for Marion Lavorre to be set up in her Labenda cottage. Of the three properties Dosal owned, he gave her the largest with the most beautiful garden. Upon seeing it, only furnished with the bare minimum, Nadine took one large sniff of the air and declared it to be acceptable.

“No damp?” teased Jester.

“No more than can be helped so close to the sea.”

Anyone with any strength was enlisted to help unload furniture from carriages and shift them from corner to corner until it all looked just right. Anyone with any strength, that was, and Mr Widogast. Sweating between the Swedes, he could not hide his struggling to carry his weight of the wooden chest.

“Here,” said Jester, rushing to his side. “I can take it. You should go back to the Myriad.”

She had not intended to frighten him away, but she was pleased to see that the threat of her shoulder, pressed up right against his, forced him to relinquish the chest without a fuss. With Jester’s assistance, the chest was up and away in her bedroom in three minutes. When she returned to the front lawn, Mr Widogast had taken a handkerchief to mop at his forehead.

“Why are you still here?” she asked.

“I was hoping I could be helpful. Obviously, I was mistaken.” He let out a laugh. “I think I should stick to the books. Unless there are any cushions that need carrying?”

“Mr Widogast, you must have so much work piled up. Or at the very least, a week’s worth of sleep to catch up on. Please be kind to yourself. We are fine here.”

A pained smile crossed his face. She tried to give him a very serious look, but he was not just avoiding her eyes, he was staring firmly at her shoes.

“I,” he began, his voice breathy. Then, with a hard swallow, he said, “Never mind. I will tell you later.”

He gave her a small bow in parting before striding over to his horse and taking off back to the Myriad. It was only when he became too small to see that she realised she had stood transfixed, watching him ride away. Shaking her head, she reached for the nearest suitcase and heaved it into the house.

That had been how the week had started. The week’s end was occupied with more minute adjustments, interviewing for two members of staff, placing books on shelves, and Jester poking the ceiling of her new bedroom with a paintbrush. Staff had been chosen, books had been alphabetised, and still, after seven days of staring up at the beginnings of  _ something _ , Jester did not really know what she wanted to paint. City, Seaside, Village, or sprawling meadow. With a sigh, she settled on a blue sky. It would do for the time being.

Only once that first week had passed did they receive a visit from her friends at the Myriad. Marion, sat by the parlour window with a worn novel on her knee, called over to Jester, “Darling, I believe you have guests.”

Jester jumped up at once, her sketchbook dropping to the floor, and rushed over to the window. Hannah stood beside an open carriage door, hand held out for Kitty who hopped down a moment later. Jester paused to see if anyone else might appear, but it appeared that it was just the two of them. If she felt a dull sting of disappointment, she did not acknowledge it. Instead she rushed to the door and threw her arms around her two dear friends in greeting.

When their bonnets and coats were removed, Marion called for tea and Nadine. Nadine arrived first.

“Nadine!” said Jester. “These are my friends Kitty and Hannah. Kitty and Hannah, this is Nadine.”

Kitty gave a happy, breathy little laugh, and said, “You are the governess, are you not, Miss…”

“Miss Bell,” said Nadine. “But I really have no problem with ‘Nadine.’”

“Of course,” stammered Kitty. The right corner of Hannah’s mouth quirked up in a wry smile. “I am sorry, it’s only that my dream, for a long time now, has been to become a governess, and from what I understand you are an incredibly accomplished one.”

Nadine’s chin raised slightly, as she replied, “Well, I was the only woman stubborn enough to withstand young Miss Lavorre’s little tricks.”

Jester giggled at the memory. Hannah stepped away from Kitty, taking Jester’s arm.

“Let us leave them to it,” she said in a stage whisper.

While Kitty and Nadine sank onto the sofa closest to the parlour door, Hannah guided Jester towards the window where Marion sat.

“Madam Lavorre,” greeted Hannah with a curtsey.

“It is wonderful to see you again, Miss Therad.”

Jester rolled her eyes at the unnecessary formalities and slumped back into her seat. If everyone was going to be proper over tea, then she would simply return to her sketchbook. Before she could put her pencil to paper, however, Hannah said something which caused her ears to twitch.

“I was wondering…” she began delicately. “If you might offer some judgment.”

Though her words were for Marion, Jester set aside her drawings and leaned forwards. Hannah hovered in the space between them, the only woman yet to take a seat. When Marion did not respond, Hannah pressed on, “Kitty and I have been working on my false background and manners. The trouble is that we’ve had only each other to speak with for days. My future husband is a useless drunk and my brothers are somehow even more useless sober. I thought perhaps, and feel free to say no, that I might… well, perform for you. For lack of a better word.”

Marion placed a delicate hand on her heart and said, “I would be delighted.”

“I could have helped you,” said Jester. Hannah turned to give Jester a sympathetic look. “I could have!”

Hannah lowered her voice and said, “I do not want to minimise the help you have given me. But when it comes to false identities, I simply thought your mother would be better suited.”

Embarrassment, hot and prickling, rose in her cheeks and chest. It was not a deliberate slight, she knew, but that did not settle her pride. Trying very hard to not betray her heart, Jester said, “I suppose that makes sense,” before losing any sense of the room beyond her own body. Her only means of measuring time was the arrival of the tea followed by the lukewarm sip she took later.

Pulling a face and clattering her cup back onto its saucer, she stood. The two pairs of women – Hannah and her mother, Kitty and Nadine – glanced up.

“Sorry,” said Jester. “I just hate to waste such a clear day on sitting indoors. I thought I might pay father a visit. While you are all so busy, that is.”

Donning her own jacket, bonnet, and boots, Jester marched to the Myriad. Her feet were throbbing, and her hem was caked in a thick layer of dirt before she thought that perhaps she should have taken a carriage. Too late now. Soon, the chimneys of the Myriad crested the horizon.

Mr Blude welcomed her into the foyer where she immediately set about brushing the dirt from her skirt.

“Jester?”

Looking up to see her father, she smiled, “Good afternoon!”

“I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all. I had a few things to do, but George and Louis are at Labenda. I will send the work on to them.”

She almost felt compelled to argue, not wishing to be another imposition. But his smile seemed true, and his eyes were bright.

“Alright,” she said.

“Just give me a moment.”

He raised a single finger before backing down the corridor and returning to his office. Alone once more, Jester blew a bored raspberry. The trouble was that she did not know what he meant by ‘a moment.’ It might be a minute, or it might be thirty. When the first minute passed, she grew too restless to wait where she stood. It would not, she decided, be too much of an imposition to check in on Mr Widogast for a moment. However long that moment proved to be.

When she pushed the door to his office open, she first thought that he was not there at all. The room was darker than she had ever seen it. Not only were the curtains pulled tightly to prevent any daylight from creeping through, but no candles were lit.

But then her eyes adjusted, and she saw the dark shape of him slumped fully onto his desk. His hair had begun to fall loose from its tie, framing one side of his face while the other was squashed against his forearm.

She took soft steps to reach his side where she said, very softly, “Mr Widogast.” After three repetitions of his name, his eyes fluttered open.

“Miss Lavorre?” he asked, sounding still half in dream.

“You should go to bed,” she cooed.

“What time is it?”

“About three.”

“In the morning?”

“In the afternoon.”

With a groan, he brought the arm by his side up to the desk and buried his face in the creases of his elbows. Giggling, she poked at his shoulder.

“You are going to feel terrible,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Your neck will be all stiff and your back will be sore.”

Mr Widogast let out another groan, this time one which sounded something akin to agreement. Slowly, he raised his head. She glanced down at his sleep face in its fullness and the throbbing of her feet were momentarily forgotten. She had never seen him so unguarded.

“Forgive me,” he said, bringing his palms up to rub at his eyes. “I am not entirely present.”

“I don’t need you to be present. I need you to go and lie down in a bed.”

“I will be fine. I just need a hot drink.”

“I hope that you’ve at least been sleeping at night.”

“Of course, I have been sleeping at night.”

“For a reasonable number of hours,” she added firmly. His silence spoke volumes. Sighing, she walked over to her usual chair. “Have you had much work to catch up on?”

“It is not catching up. I promise. Your father has just received a sudden influx of opportunities.”

Though she did not believe him, she said, “Alright. I will leave you to it. Will you also promise me that you will go to bed early and sleep until after sunrise?”

Hesitating, he replied, “I can promise you that I will lie down in my bed with my eyes closed between those hours. I cannot promise that I will be asleep for the duration.”

“Good enough.”

He gave a heavy-lidded, sleepy smile and she almost forgave him, right then, for pushing himself so very hard.

“I am sorry,” he said, “If you were hoping for company.”

“No, no. I came to see father. He is just sending some letters so I thought, in the meantime, I would bother you.”

“Well, I am glad for it. I would have wasted my day drooling on my desk otherwise.”

“I am always very helpful,” she said in a sombre exaggeration.

“That is true,” he replied without a hint of irony.

As her cheeks began to burn once more, Jester was glad for the darkness they sat in. Still, as she made to leave, she said, “Don’t forget to light some candles.”

* * *

Jester sat with her father, lazily playing cards while discussing the impending improvements to his garden, until the evening. She heard Kitty and Hannah return to the house at one point but remained too bashful to rush and greet them at once. In fact, by making use of her experience in sneaking and eavesdropping, she was able to slip out of the house without running into them. She caught Blude and quickly requested a carriage to take her back to Labenda, then waited for it out in the chilly evening.

Outside of her mother’s house, she caught sight of yellow light burning through the windows to the parlour. It really was a beautiful sight. Every brick and sill. Neat without lacking a soul; worn in without appearing weary. As she entered, she thought, such a fine house was in need of a name.

“Darling,” called Marion. Jester followed her voice. She had moved from the parlour window to sit by a roaring fire. Smiling, she asked, “How was your father?”

“He was well. I am still not as skilled as he is at cards.”

Marion gave a soft chuckle, leaning further back in her chair. It was the most peaceful she had seen her in some time.

Jester said, “Did everything go well with Hannah?”

“Perfectly. I cannot imagine half of her airs are necessary if any of what I’ve heard about her fiancé is to be believed, but she ought to be proud of her craft regardless.”

“I am glad.”

“Your other friend left a message for you.”

“Kitty?”

Marion nodded, gesturing to the small side table by the door. Jester pounced on it.

_ Dear Jester _

_ I am very sorry to have missed you. If I see you at the Myriad before you get this message, then ignore it. If not, I was wondering if I might ask you for a kindness. Hannah will leave for Norfolk tomorrow with her brothers and is not due to return from her dinner with the Keyes until the following morning. Very few remedies have proven as effective in settling my nerves as your company. If you would do me the honour of staying at the Myriad tomorrow night then I will be, deeply, in your debt. _

_ I hope you are well. You left so quickly we could not check in with you. _

_ Your Friend _

_ Kitty _

A new breed of embarrassment crested within Jester as she folded the letter.

“Mama,” she said, trying not to laugh at her own foolishness, “Is it alright if I stay at Father’s tomorrow?”

“Of course. It is still your home as much as this.” Jester glanced over at her mother with questioning eyes. Marion leaned forwards in her chair and said, “I have many regrets regarding my almost marriage, but you getting to know your father is not one of them.”

“No. I am not sorry for that either. He is a good man.”

“Yes, I am sure he is.”

* * *

Jester made a point of leaving early to catch Hannah before she left, but Kitty was pacing, frantic and alone, when Jester arrived at the Myriad. Jester had not expected Kitty to be so nervous. It threw her a little.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, standing and watching her friend walk between the walls of the parlour. “You would think you were the one being judged for marriage.”

Kitty laughed without honesty.

“Kitty,” said Jester, stepping in her path. She grabbed her hands. “You don’t need to be so worried.”

With a nod, a sigh, and a bite of her lip, Kitty promptly burst into tears.

“Oh,” cooed Jester.

“I’m sorry.”

Jester hushed her friend and pulled her close. Though they were both equally small in stature, Kitty allowed herself to become smaller in Jester’s arms. They stood there for a minute, Jester still hushing while Kitty sobbed into her chest.

Speaking so softly it was almost a whisper, Kitty’s voice crept up to Jester’s ears, saying, “Could we have some tea?”

Jester knew well that some people found as much comfort in a cup of hot tea and they did in a glass of wine. Personally, she did not see the fuss about either, but tea frequently came with sweet treats, so she favoured it over the wine in that respect.

When the platter of tea and cake arrived, Jester made to pour for the both of them.

“No,” said Kitty swiftly from her side. “Let me. I need something to do with my hands.”

Jester shrugged and stuffed a bite of lemon cake into her mouth. When Kitty had a warm cup in her hands, blowing gently against the steam with a glassy expression, Jester asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Kitty blinked and said, “Yes. I just don’t know how to say it without feeling foolish.”

“Oh, you never need to worry about feeling foolish around me. I’m the biggest fool in the world. Are you nervous for Hannah?”

“Of course.”

“But that isn’t the whole story?”

“No. Not the whole story. But it is a large part of it. I want her to succeed. Truly.”

Jester nodded in understanding, saying, “But you are afraid of what will happen if she does?”

“Yes,” replied Kitty in a whisper, as though it was the cruellest of all confessions. “Which is selfish and terrible. I am the one who decided I would leave.”

“But you haven’t left yet.”

“No.”

“Because you aren’t ready? Or because you don’t want to leave at all?”

Kitty shrugged and sipped at her tea. The cup was still steaming. Jester could not comprehend how she did not burn her tongue.

“How about this,” Jester pressed on, “If Hannah were to fail tonight or if, for some unrelated reason, she doesn’t marry Keyes, would you still want to be a governess?”

Kitty sighed, lowering her cup, “I will always want to be a governess.”

“And if you are a governess, does that mean you must be one so very far away from Hannah? Wherever she is?”

“No.”

“Then why not follow her?”

Kitty hesitated for a moment before saying, in another confidential whisper, “I do not want to presume that she wants me to be a permanent fixture of her life.”

Jester took the cup and saucer from Kitty’s clutches, placed them on the table, and pulled Kitty into her arms once more.

“That,” said Jester softly. “Is a very silly thing to be worried about. But if you really are uncertain of her feelings, you should speak with her about it.”

* * *

Hannah’s victory could not be misinterpreted. She returned with the grin and posture of a war hero, stretching her neck so that all attention was drawn to the gold and pearl necklace she now wore.

“Where did you get that?” asked Kitty.

“From Keyes’ ancient mother. It’s horrendous isn’t it?” she laughed.

It was, Jester had to admit, rather gaudy. But Hannah wore it well. As she did her success.

Jester beamed and said, “I am so happy for you.”

Any further congratulations would have to wait, however, as Kitty gave her a meaningful look. Jester nodded in understanding and excused herself.

She wandered, happily, along the scenic route towards the village. Her feet made no complaints as the hour passed. It was almost as though the air itself, the components of the ground below, had been replaced with something richer in the night. She hummed as she walked, clambered over turnstiles, and considered what name would suit her new home.

_Ruby Cottage_ , she thought, _or_ _The Fairy Grotto, or the Little Sapphire?_ Nothing felt quite right. She hoped when she set eyes on it again, the name would strike her with sudden clarity. She had no such luck.

Her good mood only slightly dampened, she burst through the front door and called out, “Mama, I’m home!”

“In here,” replied Marion.

Jester followed her voice into the bright and warm parlour.

“Oh,” she breathed, taking in the room. “Good afternoon, Mr Widogast.”

Mr Widogast jumped to his feet so quickly that his shin collided with the edge of the tea table.

“Miss Lavorre,” he greeted.

“What are you doing here?” she cried, happily.

“Oh, well,” he stammered, reaching for his cravat.

Marion cut across with, “He came to see you, my darling. It seems he was unaware that you were at the Myriad.”

“I would not have intruded on your mother had I known,” he said earnestly.

“It is no trouble,” said Marion. “I am more than at my leisure these days.”

Jester set her gaze on Mr Widogast and asked, “Was there something you needed?”

“Not at all. I simply wanted to… pay you a visit.”

The room grew impossibly brighter and warmer.

Grinning, she said, “Alright. Would you like to go for a walk?”

He nodded and, without giving her mother a second look, followed Jester through the hall and out the back door, into the garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! <3
> 
> please kudos/comment if you enjoyed


	19. An Ode to Dreamers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to @Littlekoalawings for being my wonderful beta! <3

“It is not everyone,' said Elinor, 'who has your passion for dead leaves,’” – Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

* * *

The land was not so sprawling as that at the Myriad, but it was decent enough for a turn. As they stepped out onto the grass, Jester glanced at Mr Widogast. She wondered, briefly, if she should take his arm. Mr Widogast did not allow her the opportunity and folded his hands firmly behind his back.

“So,” she began tentatively, “Did you really just come for a visit or do you have some mysterious ulterior motive you were embarrassed to reveal in front of my mother?”

He laughed with a nervous trill, “Is it so difficult to believe that I am simply here to see you?”

“No,” she admitted. “But you are a man of many mysteries, and I can never be entirely sure of your motives.”

“I suppose that is fair.”

“I hope you have taken care of yourself since we last spoke. You don’t look as weathered and sickly as usual.”

“Ah, Miss Lavorre,” said Mr Widogast with a smirk, “I can always rely on you for words of comfort.”

She giggled.

“But yes,” he continued, “I slept almost fourteen hours last night.”

“That explains how you missed me. Though, I don’t mind. It means you came to see me today!”

“So long as I am not an imposition.”

“Of course not.”

With a bite of her lip, she turned to lead their walk against the back wall of the garden.

“It is quite a small garden,” she said. “If you would prefer a longer walk then we would need to go into the village. That, or we can wander in circles for as long as you like.”

“I am more than happy with circles. This is a very fine garden, although, I will admit, a little sparse. I can only imagine how full and beautiful it will be when you have had your way with it.”

“It will still be small.”

“And yet twice the size of my childhood garden.”

Jester’s breath caught in her chest. She did not know if she had ever heard Mr Widogast mention his own life so casually. At least not without prompting. What would he do if she prompted him now? Would he freeze up like a woodland animal? Or eat from her hand?

“I have just realised,” she said, “That I am a truly awful friend. I know nothing about your childhood, and yet you know so much of mine.”

Quickly and seriously, he replied, “That is no fault of yours. I am, as you said, a man of mystery.”

“But a childhood is very important. Will you tell me about yours?”

Mr Widogast paused his steps and squinted up at the sun. Jester waited an arm’s length away.

Eventually, face still tipped back and bathed in light, he said, “There is not much to tell. It was, after all, a long time ago.”

“Mr Widogast,” she said, accusingly. “You have a habit of acting as though you are a very old man. Either you have discovered some elixir of youth or you are exaggerating.”

“It feels as though it was a long time ago, then. All I can say is that it was a humble upbringing. We had a small home with a vegetable garden, and in the day we worked the fields of the landowners.”

“And this was in Germany?”

“How did you guess?” he asked without a hint of irony.

Mouth agape, grappling with the idea that Mr Widogast was unaware of the strength of his accent, she caught a glint in his eye.

With narrow eyes, she said, “You are teasing me again.”

“I believe I have earned the right.”

She gave a conceding shrug. After all, the beginnings of their friendship were marred with her relentless teasing.

“I am sorry,” she said.

“What for?”

“For accidentally calling your garden small.”

A scowl ghosted his face as he fixed her shoulder with a serious stare. She wondered if she had accidentally offended him further but bit her tongue for fear of repeating the mistake.

“Miss Lavorre,” said Mr Widogast carefully, “I do not begrudge you for measuring against your own experiences. Besides, it was a small garden.”

“Oh. Alright.”

His seriousness did not ease. Nor did her burgeoning guilt. The silence was insufferable.

“I never had a garden growing up,” she said because she could think of nothing else.

“No?”

“No, the Chateau had balconies, but it was a business so… no garden.”

“Then I am glad you have two now,” he said softly, his expression easing. “Even if one is very small.”

She started, going to apologise again, but the glint had returned to his blue eyes.

“Not very small,” she said.

“A little small.”

She smiled, growing warm. They ought to walk again. The stillness was playing with her mind. It would be better to only see Mr Widogast from the corner of her eye rather than be faced with the full intensity of his attention.

“Shall we?” she asked, gesturing at nothing in particular.

With a nod on his part, they resumed their stroll. The conversation, however, felt a little too heavy to pick back up with the same ease. If she could take five steps back, then she might ask him more about his childhood. If she could forget her own silly thoughts, then they might have a perfectly pleasant walk.

Mr Widogast cut through her panic with a quiet, “You seem troubled. I hope you are not still worried about my garden.”

“Of course not.”

“Then, would you tell me what your plans are for this garden? I cannot imagine you haven’t given it any thought at all.”

“I have plenty of thoughts.”

“None which are ready for sharing?”

She screwed up her nose and said, “I am worried they are all too fanciful. You see, I am trying to be more realistic.”

“Realistic? Whatever for?”

“It’s just… well, with everything that has happened with my mother and father, and now that Hannah is getting married,” she sighed. “Perhaps it is time to put fantasies aside.”

“Miss Lavorre, might I speak out of turn?”

“Always.”

“I think you have given yourself an unfair assessment. We are all plagued with fantasies. That is the nature of humanity. The difference is that you are brave enough to pursue your fantasies. I’m not certain that you can ever grasp the impact you have had on the people around you. Your mother has her own home, out from under the thumb of that terrible lord. Miss Cree has rediscovered her life’s passion. Your father is happier and kinder. Most importantly, I am out of doors rather than trapped in my office.”

It was strange. She had thought herself comforted by his imagined words, but that was nothing compared to the physical fact of him beside her, to the earnest gravel in his voice.

With a swallow, he said, “If you have grown weary of fantasies then I cannot hold that against you, but I will not have you believe them a weakness.”

If he would have allowed her to throw her arms around him, to squeeze him tightly as she sought further comfort in the crook of his neck, then she would have been upon him in a flash. Once again, she was foiled by his propriety.

“Well then,” she began shakily. Clearing her throat, she continued, “In that case, I will tell you my plans.”

She filled the space between them with flower beds and water features. “I want it to look magical,” she said. “Like you could be swarmed by fairies at any moment.” The hands which itched to clutch at his neck, instead gestured to where she imagined a cobbled stone path, a garden of mushrooms, and a willow tree. As she spoke, Mr Widogast listened with rapt attention. He did not simply nod and smile but chimed in every so often with a suggestion or anecdote of his own.

“Gardens are places of magic,” he told her. “The fairy stories my mother told me always began in a garden. Each time I crossed the border of our land and into the wild forest beyond, I felt as though I was stepping through a door. It was, at times, a little scary. I thought I might be kidnapped by all sorts of creatures. I am sure she was glad to have instilled caution in me or else I might have wandered too far and been eaten by a wolf.”

Jester took this fraction of his past with reverence. She would not push for more, she thought, she would simply treasure whatever he chose to offer.

But the easiness of their conversation could not be sustained. The afternoon grew grey with the threat of rain and even her wide fantasies had thinned. There was little more to be said on the subject of gardens.

“I should get back,” said Mr Widogast, nodding at the heavy clouds above.

“Will you come back soon?”

“If you would welcome me.”

“I would.”

He almost smiled as he said, “You know, I do have one criticism of this otherwise very reasonably sized garden.”

“And what is that?”

“There are no slopes for rolling down,” he said. “Good day, Miss Lavorre.”

As he left, Jester spun around to verify his claim. From where she stood, she could only see flat ground. He was right. Just then, she felt a cold drop of rain land on the end of her nose.

* * *

Jester had not been away from the Myriad for more than a night before the shining sun of Hannah’s victory pulled her back into orbit.

“There’s a letter for us!” cried Jester, bursting into the music room and interrupting both her mother’s gentle singing and Nadine’s lifeless piano-playing.

While Nadine gave her a sharp look, Marion said, “What does it say?”

“We’ve been invited to a party.”

“All of us?” asked Nadine.

“Yes. Hannah wants us all at the Myriad tonight to celebrate her wedding in… just a few days! Oh, that’s very soon.”

Jester looked up at her mother and governess expectantly. The two women, in turn, glanced at one another. Seeming to reach an agreement, Nadine got to her feet while Marion walked over to take Jester’s hand.

“I’m going to see how lunch is coming along,” said Nadine.

As the door clicked closed, Marion led Jester over to the ruby red couch against the back wall. Jester sat at her side with lead limbs.

“Darling,” said Marion, pushing a loose curl out of Jester’s face. “I know that your father and I have reached an accord when it comes to this house. We are on good terms now. But I’m afraid that is as far as it will ever go. I cannot see us attending parties together let alone under his roof.”

Jester merely shrugged. If the wound was too fresh, then she would try again once it had healed.

Swiftly changing she subject, she said, “Mama, I’ve been thinking about what we should call our new home.”

“Have you, now?”

“What do you think of ‘the Little Chateau.’”

Marion inhaled deeply and gazed into space for a moment.

After a moment, she smiled and said, “I think it’s perfect.”

* * *

Having no desire to mar her pretty pink dress in the fields, Jester took the carriage from the Little Chateau to the Myriad. The setting sun stained the sky the same shade as her dress and she appreciated the view as they rambled along. About halfway between the village and the Myriad, she caught sight of two men on horseback, trotting behind her. She narrowed her eyes upon them until they were close enough to identify. In the lead, rode George Therad, with Louis just behind him. George turned to say something then, laughing, took off at a galloping pace. He quickly overtook the carriage and Louis, red-faced, was left in the dust.

She expected him to gallop after his brother, but he slowed instead, muttering something unintelligible.

“Louis!” she cried, sticking her head out of the window. His horse gave a snort while Louis reared back with wide eyes. “Sorry to scare you. I was just wondering if you wanted to ride with me.”

He nudged his horse to move along until he was riding alongside the carriage.

“Miss Lavorre?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I would not abandon my steed, but I would keep in pace with you.”

“Why did George leave you?”

“He grew tired of mocking my heart. His final jest was to abandon me completely.”

“Oh dear.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, I hope your heart is not too injured to enjoy the party.”

Clenching his jaw, he said, “As do I.”

Jester waited for him to elaborate. Minutes passed as he stared at the horizon.

“Alright,” she said, impatience bubbling. “This was nice. I won’t keep you if you want to ride ahead.”

Louis gave her a slow bow of his head and said, “You are most kind, Miss,” before galloping onwards.

* * *

The party was not in full swing when she arrived. More like, cresting its first swing. The ballroom looked enormous with only a few guests mingling within. It had not felt so large when she had first attended a party at the Myriad. She supposed that her expectations were tarnished by the grand ball her father had held since.

Her eyes found Hannah first. Kitty stood right beside her. Nothing could pass between them. They were in conversation with Claudia and an older woman named Miss Windilon, who Jester half remembered from a previous party.

Across the ballroom, Louis had located his brother and seemed to be scolding him, judging by the smirk George was failing to suppress. It had been some time since she had seen George. On her way over to the two Therad men, she skirted a card table where the Captain and Dweez silently upped their bets and Mr Keyes slept, his head lolling backwards so he might breath gin out at whoever passed. Perhaps, she thought, holding her nose, she ought to have cut across the dance floor. The only pair who had taken to it thus far were the Swedes.

George spotted her as she approached and cried out, “Jester! Miss Lavorre, come here and interrupt my brother’s tedious speech.”

“Miss Lavorre,” greeted Louis.

“Mr Louis. Mr George,” said Jester with a curtsey. “I hope London has been treating you well. If that’s where you have been. I never pay much attention to father when he talks about business.”

George laughed, “Yes, we are usually in London. I work while Louis fawns over some poor young woman he spots in a crowd.”

“Again you demean my work.”

“If nobody will pay you for your poetry then it is not work.”

Jester frowned, saying, “I don’t think that’s true. I think if you work hard on anything then it is work.”

Louis gave his brother a triumphant grin while George rolled his eyes.

“Miss Lavorre,” said Louis, “You are once again a jewel amongst dull, uninspiring gravel. Pray, would you care to hear my current project. It is my hope that it will convince her to marry me.”

“It will not work. She is rich and you are a fool. This is the case for all of your fancies.”

Jester snorted but, after seeing Louis’ wounded expression, she added, “Perhaps you can read me your poem later. When I am tired of dancing.”

“On that note,” said George, extending his hand, “Will you dance with me, Miss?”

Jester placed her own gloved hand in his and joined the Swedes. The music shifted towards an upbeat country dance. The four of them skipped together as best as they could. Jester had never felt so short before in her life. A little out of breath, and only half finished with the dance, she saw Mr Widogast slip into the ballroom.

Missing her cue to spin, she hopped up to wave in his direction with a cry of, “Mr Widogast!”

Mr Widogast’s head snapped up. Rather weakly, he gave her a wave back. Jester turned back to George with a grin.

“Sorry,” she said. “Where were we?”

His eyebrows quirked as he replied, “That is quite alright. I have just never seen someone so excited to see Caleb Widogast.”

By the time the dance had ended, Mr Widogast had been commandeered by Hannah. Others followed them to fill up the floor. Hannah and Mr Widogast took the place beside George and Jester as the band began to bow them a slower song.

As Hannah and Jester passed one another, Hannah leaned in to whisper, “Forgive me for borrowing Mr Widogast.”

They were separated and Jester could not help but scowl at the implication of Hannah’s apology. Why, after all, would she be bothered by her dancing with Mr Widogast? Yes, she would like to dance with him herself, but there would be time for that.

Passing Jester once more, Hannah said, “My future husband has woken from his nap and I do not want him groping me on the dance floor.”

It did nothing to clarify her meaning. Jester hoped that Hannah did not believe Jester felt entitled to Mr Widogast’s first dance simply because she had been the first to notice him enter. She shook her head and focused on George’s story. Of how he had caught Louis reading sonnets beneath the window of a duke’s daughter.

“It is not that I think he would do poorly in a dual for her honour,” said George. “It is that I think he would stand absolutely no chance of surviving.”

Jester sighed, “Oh, Louis. Perhaps she will escape her palace walls and run to him. That would be terribly romantic.”

“If that woman gives up her fortune and title for my brother she will be as lacking in sense as in funds.”

“You are very cruel to him, you know?”

“Perhaps. But this is not the first time I have had to pull him from the grips of certain death. And always over the love of a stranger.”

“I hope that he finds it easier to secure a muse once Hannah is married.”

“If she can provide him with his own room for writing in then I will be satisfied. The nights I have been kept awake by his scribbling… I cannot count.”

The song came to its end. George bowed while Jester curtsied.

“Another?” asked George.

Before Jester could answer, Hannah cut across and seized her brother’s hands, hissing, “Let them dance.” Or at least that was what it sounded like. It was hard for Jester to hear exactly what she said. She turned to Mr Widogast so she might read his face. He gave her a small smile and her worry eased.

“Look,” she said, holding out her hand for Mr Widogast. “I’m wearing gloves.”

She could not completely forget Hannah’s baffling behaviour, but a few dances went a long way towards knocking it to the back of her mind. They exchanged a few pleasantries before the pace of the music had her breathless.

Eventually, he said, “Would you like a break?”

“I could dance all night,” she lied. “But if you need a break then I will happily sit down with you.”

Mr Widogast made for the nearest table and chairs as Jester caught sight of Louis. He had taken refuge in a far corner, head bowed over what she assumed to be a notebook.

“Mr Widogast,” she said, tapping his shoulder. “I made a promise to listen to some poetry. Will you join me?”

“I am not particularly well-versed in poetry. Though I am always happy to learn. I enjoyed the book you lent me, after all.”

Jester pointed to where Louis was sat, and they wandered over together.

As they walked, she said, “I did not know you had finished my book already.”

“I am a fast reader.”

“A fast reader, a fast rider, and a slow croquet player,” she teased.

“I fear you have discovered my entire character.”

She shot him a wry smile before sliding, unannounced, into the empty chair to Louis’ right. Mr Widogast followed suit and took the chair to his left.

“Oh,” said Louis, glancing from side-to-side at his sudden companions. “Miss Lavorre. Mr Widogast. You caught me rather off guard. I have been stuck on this verse for half the evening.”

Jester said, “We did not mean to interrupt. I only came for my reading.”

“I must disappoint you,” said Louis sombrely. “I will not rest my pen until I have cracked this particular problem.”

Jester looked from Louis to Mr Widogast, unsure what the correct course of action was. Mr Widogast looked equally perplexed. Then, leaning closer to Louis, he said, “What if we helped you.”

“Yes!” cried Jester. “We could be very helpful.”

Louis glanced between them once more, then at his open notebook, then between them.

“Alright,” he said. “I suppose it cannot hurt. I have mentioned, thus far, the warmth of her smile, the coldness of her absence, and the perfect temperature of her hand in mine.”

“Well, that is a very good start,” said Jester.

Louis scoffed, “No. It is terrible. It is trite. It has been done a thousand times before.” He threw down his pen with a great flourish. “I am doomed to suffer a love that cannot be put into words.”

Mr Widogast reached for the pen and, holding it out for Louis to reclaim, he said, “If you wish to compare her to various temperatures perhaps you could be a little more specific.”

“How so?” asked Louis.

“Well,” said Mr Widogast, “Most lovers have smiles, and absences, and hands. What is it about this Miss…,”

“Miss Duffey.”

“What is it about this ‘Miss Duffey’ which has captured you so?”

Jester said, “Does she have a very fine nose?”

“The best of all noses,” said Louis.

“That’s good. Write that down.”

Louis began to scribble while Mr Widogast asked, “What else?”

“She also has a wonderful chin.”

“And what of her character?”

“Aloof.”

“So,” said Jester. “Cold?”

“At times.”

“And her habits?” prompted Mr Widogast. “Does she have any particular charms?”

“The way that she chews,” said Louis with a mournful sigh. “It is truly precious. Like watching a field mouse nibble a berry.”

“Then write that down!” said Jester.

Louis scribbled again, this time for a few minutes. As he did so, Jester tried to read the previous verses over his shoulder. There were rather a lot of references to foliage. She had never known that one woman could resemble such a wide variety of flora. Finally, he put down his pen and picked up his book.

“How is this?” he asked, beginning to read, “I am bathed in warm light when I watch you eat, I am left shivering in ice when you refuse to dance, but no air is as temperate as the shape of your nose.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Jester.

Quickly, Louis said, “It will need further work. The rhythm is off. But I am pleased with the potential.”

Mr Widogast cleared his throat and said, “We are glad to be of assistance. Miss Duffey sounds like an exceptional woman.”

“She is beyond exceptional! Here, I have the beginnings of an epic I intend to compose.”

As Louis flipped through his book, Jester could not help but look upon Mr Widogast a little longer. He spoke of love with such certainty. It was not the first time that she had been left wondering after the woman Mr Widogast had loved. Perhaps still loved. It was, however, the first time the thought of it had turned something in her stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!!
> 
> please leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed <3


	20. Such Sweet Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you as always to my beautiful beta @oftennot

“Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.” - Jane Austen, Emma

* * *

Jester awoke in her bed at the Myriad to yet another quiet house. Tiptoeing down the hall, she heard nothing beyond Kitty’s door but Hannah’s snores. Resigned to breakfasting alone, she was surprised to see that her father was already up, dressed, and sitting at a heavily laden table.

“Ah,” he said jovially, putting aside the paper he had been reading from. “I did not expect anyone else to be awake yet. Come, sit. I can call for some pastries.”

“Yes, please.”

Jester slid into the seat beside him and, bypassing the teapot, poured herself a cup of milk. Dosal picked up a small bell and rang it.

“I didn’t see you last night,” she said.

“I was not sure if your mother would be there.”

“ _ Father _ ,” she scolded. “The two of you are ridiculous.”

Dosal seized on Lauren’s arrival, avoiding Jester’s comment by asking for pastries. When Lauren had gone, Jester said, “Are you worried you’ll burst into flames if you’re in the same room for too long?”

“I am simply giving her space.”

“And she is giving you space. Neither of you went to Hannah’s party.”

“I am sure Hannah will find it in her heart to forgive me,” he said loftily. “She has hardly done any work for me this past month.”

“She is getting  _ married _ .”

“And leaving my employment forever. Terrible of her really.”

“I don’t think you believe your own words.”

“Don’t I?”

“No.”

His aloof expression quirked into a quick wink. Then, picking up his papers once more, returned to being the picture of disinterest.

* * *

Neither Hannah nor Kitty rose before lunch. Jester had been considering making her way back to Labenda, but there were barely a handful of days left before the wedding and after that, who knew when she might see Hannah again. So, she decided she would read to kill time and try not to be too bored.

Running a finger along the shelves of her father’s library, she let out an endless cycle of sighs. Did nobody here read anything with a plot? She had a few books up in her room. Not to mention the one she had lent to Mr Widogast. No. No, the material was not the problem. What she really wanted was to draw. To capture the evening’s revelries on paper.

As she wandered down the hall towards her father’s office, she hovered outside of Mr Widogast’s door. But she didn’t need to bother him. If he was awake then he would be working and if he was working then he would need quiet. She pushed on and knocked at her father’s door.

With paper and pen in hand, she retreated to the parlour where she might scribble Mr Keyes’ gums swallowing the ballroom whole. It was almost enough to pick the ticking of the clock up from a snail’s pace. Still, when she heard footsteps on the stairs, she jumped to her feet and cast her art aside.

She caught both Hannah and Kitty descending the stairs together. Hannah stifled a yawn behind Kitty who, in a voice still thick with sleep, said, “Morning.”

“Afternoon!” replied Jester cheerfully.

Hannah let out a soft groan and rubbed at her temples. Though she was dressed, her hair looked as though she had not brushed it, had not even unpinned it, since the day before. Kitty was in somewhat better shape. Even so, from the scrunch of her nose, it was clear that neither woman was in the mood for upbeat conversation.

Lowering her voice slightly, Jester said, “How did you sleep?”

“Long,” said Hannah. “Is there food?”

“It’s almost lunch,” said Jester.

“Can it be lunch now?”

Lunch could, Mr Blude told them after a quick visit to the kitchen, be served in ten minutes. While they waited, Hannah and Kitty sat at the table, drinking tea. Jester went to tell her father that lunch would be early. After, she found herself lingering outside of Mr Widogast’s door once more. She had not seen him all day. Had he eaten anything? When did he find time to eat? Shaking her head free of clouds, Jester barged into Mr Widogast’s office.

“Good Afternoon,” she said.

Mr Widogast was upright, awake, and bright-eyed.

“Miss Lavorre,” he greeted. “Did you sleep well?”

“That is usually my question for you.”

“I slept very well. Now, did you?”

“I did.”

“Good.”

She felt a blush creep up her neck and she had to glance away. With a bite of her lip, she asked, “Have you eaten today?”

“You know, I seem to have forgotten to.”

“Oh, good!” she cried. “Well, not good. You should eat regularly, but if you haven’t eaten anything then you can join the rest of us for lunch.”

“Ah,” he said, leaning back with a quirked smile, “Our wine-soaked friends have risen earlier than I predicted.”

“If you suspected them to be asleep then you might have crept out of the dark to keep me company.”

“I apologise. I have failed in my most important duty. That is, to ensure you are never alone.”

“You tease me again.”

His mouth thinned and he said, in a slightly broken voice, “Naturally.”

Jester was saved the pain of finding anything witty to say in return by a cry from down the hall. Hannah wanted them all to know that lunch was being served.

* * *

“Did you enjoy the party, Mr Widogast?” asked Kitty. “Hannah seems convinced that you only attend them out of obligation.”

Hannah, beside her, was silenced by a mouthful of bread. Though she did show her commitment to this belief with a shrug and a grunt.

Jester felt Mr Widogast glance sideways at her very quickly before saying, “I did enjoy myself. I understand why some might believe otherwise, but I have always been fond of parties.”

“I’m glad,” said Jester. “Now I will never feel guilty for dragging you to one.”

“I hope that you will never feel guilty for dragging me anywhere, Miss Lavorre. I have not yet been injured by your whims.”

“Save for the first time we played croquet.”

Hannah swallowed so quickly that she began to choke. Kitty rubbed her back as she gulped down tea. Once her airway was clear, she said, sounding a little raspy, “Sorry. I only wanted to ask what happened the first time you played croquet.”

Before either Jester or Mr Widogast could answer, Mr Dosal entered the room with a small mountain of mail.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, taking his seat. “I was held up by Blude. Hannah, there are a thousand letters here for you.”

“Oh?” asked Hannah, sounding only barely interested. “I assume they are mostly congratulations.”

Hannah leaned across the table to reach for the letters but was forced to pause by a raised hand from Mr Dosal.

He said, “If there is any money along with these congratulations then I am entitled to at least half.”

“At least?”

“I am not a post office, my dear.”

With narrow eyes, Hannah said, “How much of my future fortune must go to you in order to keep my brothers from the gallows.”

“I have no intention of hanging any of my employees.”

“How much to put in a little more effort to protect them?”

Mr Dosal cocked his head in consideration before saying, “A quarter.”

“Done.”

They grasped one another’s forearms like knights swearing their brotherhood. Upon their parting, Dosal passed Hannah her letters, and she began to set about sorting through them.

“Now,” said Dosal, pulling a small silver flask from inside his jacket and pouring a dash of it into his teacup. “What did I interrupt?”

“A conversation about croquet,” said Kitty, eyes fixed on Hannah’s hands.

“Terrible game,” said Dosal.

Mr Widogast shrugged and said, “It is not so bad.”

“It is quite bad,” countered Jester. Then, glancing at Mr Widogast’s pale cheek, his crooked nose, and his strong chin, felt compelled to add, “But not terrible.”

Deep in her letters, Hannah sighed, “No money so far.”

“Keep digging,” said Dosal.

Hannah gave a salute without raising her eyes and continued to shuffle.

Dosal turned his attention on Kitty, asking, “And when are you leaving me, Miss Cree?”

“I have been speaking with Jester’s old governess,” she said. “She has reached out to a few of her friends in the north.”

“Wait,” said Hannah. All cutlery hovered as everyone watched Hannah scowl down at one of the letters. “This is for a Mr Ermendrud. Who is that?”

“Oh,” said Dosal, holding out his hand. “That is one of my old false names.”

Hannah passed the letter to him with a shrug before returning to her search for treasure. Jester watched her father, wondering what someone from so far in his past might have to say. But he did not open the letter there at the table. Instead, he stuffed it alongside his flask, inside his jacket. Mildly disappointed, she loaded her bread with another layer of strawberry jam. As she chewed, she could not help but notice that Mr Widogast had not touched his plate for a good minute.

Leaning over, she whispered, “Are you alright?”

“Hmm?” he asked. “Oh. Yes. Perfect.”

She could not bring herself to believe him, but the lunch table seemed the worst place to prod him for an explanation. When the table was cleared, her father and Mr Widogast returned to their offices at once. Jester did not wish to intrude too much on Hannah and Kitty, so she left shortly after. During the short carriage ride back to Labenda, she forgot the letter completely. 

* * *

Jester did not see Mr Widogast over the next few days. In the mornings, she would walk with Hannah and Kitty around the gardens of the Myriad. Her afternoons were saved for her mother and improvements on their own garden. She was not overly preoccupied with concern for Mr Widogast, though she always hoped to meet with him. If he had work to do then she would not tear him away from it. At least not until she really needed him.

This particular need arose a mere three days later, on the morning of Hannah’s wedding. Jester saw her off, along with Kitty, complimenting her pretty pale blue gown and fastening that awful pearl necklace.

“Good luck,” whispered Jester as Hannah pressed a quick kiss to Kitty’s cheekbone and rushed from the house. To where Mr Keyes’ aunt was waiting in a carriage to escort her to the Labenda church.

Kitty flew to the window and watched as the carriage rolled its way from the driveway, onto the road, and then out of sight.

Jester approached her, placed a gentle hand on her back, and asked, “Are you worried again?”

“Only that it will be too long before we see one another.”

“She will be back for her things.”

“And then gone again.”

“And then you will follow.”

“God willing.”

“Come on,” said Jester, removing her hand so she could wrap her arm around Kitty. “I cannot have you staring out of this window all day long. We should do something fun. Do you want to read the bible? I know how much you enjoy that.”

Kitty gave a nervous laugh. Jester had not been joking, but she was glad to have relieved a little of the tension.

Trying again, Jester said, “Or… cards?”

Kitty’s brow was furrowed as they played. She scowled at a good hand as much as a bad one.

“We could go for a walk,” said Jester. “Oh. Wait.” As she turned her head she saw a light spattering of rain beginning to dot the window. “Well what if we played another sort of game. What game can we play inside with two people? Other than cards.”

“Chess?”

“I don’t know how to play.”

“Truly?” asked Kitty. “You never played as a child?”

“A few of my governesses tried to teach me but then I would just use the pieces to act out my storybooks.”

“So, what did you play?”

“Well, when mama had the time we would play Blind Man’s Bluff or Hunt the Slipper.”

“With just the two of you?”

“Well… yes. But it was always great fun. We could play one of those!”

“I’m not sure I’m in the mood to run around wearing a blindfold. What about a word game?”

With a frown of her own, Jester said, “What games can you play with words?”

“The Elements game! You take a handkerchief and throw it at another player, shouting out an element. Then the other player must name an animal who lives in that element. So, if I said ‘water’ you might say ‘salmon.’”

“So, we just throw a handkerchief back and forth?” she asked, failing to hide her disappointment.

“It’s great fun! I promise. It might be a little less fun with only the two of us. It removes the element of surprise since you always know who will be thrown the handkerchief next…,” she trailed off. “Perhaps it isn’t such a good idea after all.”

What little excitement had appeared upon Kitty’s face began to fade. Jester knew she needed to act quickly.

“No!” she cried. “No. I will fetch Mr Widogast and we will have a wonderful game.”

Jester rushed down the hall and, barely poking her head into Mr Widogast’s office, said, “Come to the parlour. We’re playing a game!”

She caught the briefest glint of confusion on his face before she rushed back to the parlour.

“Is he coming?” asked Kitty, brows raised as Jester caught her breath in the middle of the room. “You were very fast.”

Jester raised a hand to ask for a moment longer. Her breath was still ragged. As she spluttered and wheezed, she saw Kitty rise to her feet and say, “Mr Widogast. How kind of you to join us.”

Jester glanced over her shoulder and gave Mr Widogast a wave. With a quick smile in her direction, Mr Widogast said, “Miss Lavorre lured me with the promise of a game.”

“Yes. The Elements game. Do you know it?” said Kitty.

“I have played before, but not for a very long time.”

Feeling capable of speech once more, Jester said, “Then we just need a handkerchief, and we can begin.”

At that, Mr Widogast produced an orange handkerchief from his chest pocket. On Kitty’s instruction, Mr Widogast and Jester arranged three chairs in a circle and prepared themselves for Kitty to make the first throw.

“Now,” said Kitty. “The person who does not catch must count to ten as fast as possible. If the catcher has not named an animal before ten then they forfeit the point.”

“And the animal must be related to the named element, yes?” said Mr Widogast.

“Wait,” said Jester. “What if someone says fire.”

Kitty cried, “Oh! Then everyone must fall silent. No counting. No naming. Because nothing can live in fire.”

“That is very true,” said Mr Widogast. “Shall we begin?”

They made their way through air, water, earth, and back again before tossing the handkerchief Jester’s way, Kitty said, “Fire!”

Mr Widogast was silent as ever. Jester, however, cried, “Phoenix.”

“Jester,” said Kitty. “You are supposed to be silent.”

With a light cough, Mr Widogast said, “She is not wrong though. A Phoenix does live in fire. Or is born from it at least.”

“I agree with Mr Widogast. I think I should get double the points.”

“Well,” said Kitty, smirking slightly. “I seem to be outnumbered.”

Jester beamed and tossed the handkerchief at Mr Widogast’s face, crying, “Air!”

* * *

The wedding party returned Hannah to the Myriad before their game had ended. Kitty had been in the middle of thinking up an animal who lives in water when the sound of wheels on gravel crept into the room. Kitty jumped up at once, the handkerchief falling from her lap.

From outside, Hannah could be heard, “I will be just a moment! I do not need help.”

Jester and Mr Widogast exchanged a look before following Kitty into the foyer. Once Hannah was through the front door, her ladylike persona fell away, and her shoulders slumped.

“Good Afternoon,” she greeted.

Hannah laughed nervously and said, “It is still morning.”

“Then it is the longest morning of my life. Weddings are so dull.”

Jester asked, “How long until you leave again?”

“As long as it takes me to change into something suitable for travel, and to have Blude pack my luggage onto the carriage.”

“I will help you change,” said Kitty.

The two of them hurried up the stairs without a second glance for either Jester or Mr Widogast. Jester’s eyes flickered to Mr Widogast beside her. There was something akin to melancholy.

“I hope,” he said softly. “That they will not be parted for long.”

“Is that what is bothering you?”

“I am always bothered by something. But it is usually something tedious like paperwork.”

Jester studied him for a moment, searching. Though, for what, she did not know. But she was struck by the memory of his profile, drained of all colour, as he ignored his lunch. He glanced down at her with a bracing smile. He had been in high spirits during their game. She had no reason to believe it an act. Whatever had troubled him the other day did not appear to be troubling him any longer. Well, she thought, if the trouble had passed then she would not drag it back up.

Hannah and Kitty returned rather quickly, carrying three cases between them. Jester had thought they might take this opportunity for a long goodbye. Unfortunately, there did not seem to be time. There was barely time for a short goodbye.

“I will be back to visit, of course,” said Hannah, taking Jester in her arms for only a moment. Behind her, Blude set about piling all three cases in his arms and carrying them out through the front door. “And you are more than welcome to come and visit me. Though, I will understand if you don’t want to.” Releasing Jester, she gave Mr Widogast a bow of her head and said, “Mr Widogast. It has been an unexpected pleasure.”

“Thank you, Mrs Keyes,” he replied with a bow of his own.

Hannah let out a small grunt of disgust before turning back to Kitty, throwing herself at her with such force that Jester was briefly concerned they might tumble to the stone floor. But they remained stable and upright as they clutched at one another.

Jester felt her eyes drift back to Mr Widogast. She had thought he would be looking at the tragic couple, but he was smiling in her direction. It was difficult, in that moment, to feel anything less than hopeful. She was suddenly and entirely certain that everything would work out well for everyone.

* * *

The moment Miss Lavorre’s eyes left his face, Caleb’s smile faded. He did not mean to be dishonest with her regarding his current mood. He simply did not want to broach the subject without having first decided his movements.

He watched as the new Mrs Keyes left. He watched as Miss Lavorre reached for Miss Cree’s hand and squeezed. He watched as they decided to go to Labenda and bother Miss Bell for updates on Miss Cree’s future as a governess.

“Will you come with us?” asked Miss Lavorre.

When her bright round eyes and hopeful chirp were set upon him, Caleb struggled to say no. He forced himself to think of the decision awaiting him in his office drawer.

“I am afraid I cannot,” he said. “I have a few things to see to.”

He loathed to hear the disappointment in her voice when she said, “Oh. Alright.”

But he did not linger on it. She would have Miss Cree. He was not necessary. Secluded once more in the dark of his own office, Caleb unlocked that top drawer of his desk and retrieved the letter he had already committed to memory. It did not matter. He read it once more.

_ Mr Ermendrud _

_ Bren _

_ It is strange to write your name once more. Though it is not an unwelcome strangeness. I hope you are well. But you know that I am not writing with the pure intention of exchanging pleasantries. I will cut to the chase. Our mentor is in a bad way. We are with him here, in London, Wulf and I. For a week we have heard of nothing but you. If you wish to see the man who made us before he passes on, I bid you come to the enclosed address as soon as you are able. _

_ It will be nice to see you again. _

_ Your friend and colleague, _

_ Astrid  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much! please leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed... or like just wanna yell at me <3


	21. Your Money or Your Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to @grandfatherclock for betaing for me!!! I adore you
> 
> tws for this speicifc chapter: caleb backstory stuff, guns, hunger, abuse, alcohol, and mental illness

“Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.”- Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

* * *

Bren Aldric Ermendrud was born and raised in a small village within the Holy Roman Empire. The son of a soldier turned bitter farmhand; his future was set to follow this lead. But then came a breed of war which shook the princes in their fur-lined boots. The way his father, Leofric, told it, this threatened the very soul of their various nations. Bren had never heard his father speak with such fervour. Throughout the early years of Bren’s childhood, Leofric offered little of his heart. Where before he had thought his father dull and bull-headed, he found him sharp. Though still bull-headed. If his mother, Una, disagreed with her husband’s stance on revolution, she did not voice it. She took her pride in lengthening the hem on her son’s trousers as his legs grew longer. He had gone through a great growth spurt shortly after his fifteenth birthday. Una put aside time each night to adjust his hems and, by the time she had finished, he was being gifted fine garments from an emissary to a spy master.

In the face of such a dramatic shift in the course of his life, Bren had one question.

“Can I bring my cat?”

The emissary looked at Una in confusion.

“Bren,” said Una. “Frumpkin will be safer here.”

Spy Master Ikithon was a revolutionary in his march against the possibility of revolution. His recruits were chosen indiscriminate of class, of age, or even gender. All Ikithon asked for was a keen mind and a commitment to the cause. Napoleon was on the rise, was he not? Their shared soul was not yet secure. And so, Bren was plucked, along with two others, from his substandard schooling. Bren, Eadwulf, and Astrid. Each of them brighter than their communities could either grasp or make use of. From books on history, on mathematics, and religion, they progressed to mechanisms of diplomacy, the art of subterfuge, and the means for nurturing a ruthless spirit.

The three students had likely been expected to treat one another with the same ruthlessness they showed Ikithon’s captives. Competition was encouraged. Comradery was not. But they were human, no matter how much work went into hammering them into weapons.

“You are his favourite,” said Astrid to Bren one night, a bottle of wine ghosting her lips.

Wulf scowled at this statement but drowned his disagreement in his own bottle. The three of them sat together, as they had every night for almost two years. But desks and libraries had been traded for a cold floor and empty walls. If Bren’s mind had not worked like a clock, then they might have been fooled into believing it was daylight. The sun had no point of entry, no cracks or gaps to filter through.

Bren shifted his back against the wall in a vain attempt to rest his shoulder blades more comfortably. Then, he asked, “What makes you believe he favours any one of us?”

“You are thinking on it again,” she scolded.

Bren drank slowly, relishing in every inch way from sobriety he fell. After a moment, he said, “I have not stopped thinking on it.”

Wulf, having drained his bottle, tossed it aside with a clatter. “You are not his favourite,” he said with venom. Bren and Astrid looked over at him with pity, untouched by his anger. “You question too much. You think too much. He pays you the most attention because he trusts you the least.”

Astrid gave Bren a knowing smirk before saying, “He can be his most beloved and least trusted in the same breath.” Bren let out a shaky laugh, blinking back tears. “Come,” she said softly. “Do not encourage our master to have complicated feelings.”

Bren wanted her to reach for his hand. He thought, foolishly, that her touch might ground him. As if anything could. She did not reach for him. She had one hand on a bottle’s neck and the other on her pistol. It was in moments like those that he missed Frumpkin the most.

Bren’s own pistol was tucked within his coat. The cold handle burned his skin through his threadbare shirt. He found he was remiss to do anything that might lessen that burn. It was, of course, the same gun he had emptied into his father’s skull. The carnage of the execution was as clear in his memory as Ikithon’s fervent whisper beforehand.

“Bren,” he said, steering him from the others. “I am afraid I have some terrible news.”

“What is it?”

“I will show you.”

That had been back at Ikithon’s estate. Amongst velvet and gold. They marched through rooms decorated to impress every dignitary. Look at the power of our prince, it said, that this is how well his advisors live. Bren found it difficult to imagine Ikithon decorating so lavishly for his own pleasure. They passed the ballroom in which Astrid had taught him to dance, late into the night, when the house was fast asleep. They passed the school rooms where he and Wulf traded insults with familiar ease. They climbed higher, up the spiral stairs where he had kissed Astrid for the first time. Then higher still.

At the top of the marble stairs, Ikithon retrieved a heavy key and unlocked the door which separated the estate’s grandeur from its dreary tower. This was where the real work took place. As far as Bren knew, they did not have any prisoners at the moment. But there was a groaning from the darkness above. Finally, their climb was complete.

“Bren?” came a ragged voice. It rang a terrible bell. His father called out once more, “Bren, is that you?”

Bren looked at Ikithon, asking without words if this was what he believed it to be. Ikithon gave a solemn nod.

“Father,” said Bren, stepping into the shadows.

He could make out only the dark shape of the man who had raised him, bound with rope and chain to a chair in the centre of the room. Ikithon fumbled with lighting a torch before holding it out for Bren to take. Bren gripped the torch with white knuckles, tilting it forwards to illuminate his father’s hollow cheeks.

“How long has he been here?” he asked Ikithon.

“A month,” said Leofric.

Bren looked to Ikithon for confirmation. He replied, “A little under a month. I wanted to be certain of his treachery before I told you.”

“And?” said Bren.

“And I am sorry, my child,” said Ikithon, backing towards a lone chest of drawers. From within he pulled a series of papers. “I have here all the proof needed to charge your father with treason.”

Leofric groaned once more, saying, “He is lying.”

Bren held out the torch for Ikithon to take in exchange for the papers. He was a fast reader, always had been. It irritated Wulf to no end. But this file was not so easily digested. Though it was not long, he felt compelled to read each word twice just to be certain he made no mistake in understanding.

Reading the final line twice, three times, Bren looked up at his father and asked, “Why?”

“I did nothing,” he replied.

“This is not nothing,” said Bren, shaking the papers.

Leofric simply shook his head. In retrospect, Bren believed this to be due to despondency, to an arid throat, to a bone-deep exhaustion.

Ikithon spoke instead, saying, “It is a tragedy when fathers cannot accept their sons exceeding them.”

There was an angry pulse in Leofric’s neck and a tightening of his jaw. If Bren had not been sold on his guilt before then this was all the confirmation he needed. His focus shifted from his father to Ikithon.

“What do we do with him?” he asked.

Ikithon gave an exasperated sigh and said, “I believe that is your choice to make.” Bren started. Ikithon continued, “We might bring him to trial, but the more people who know of this the more I worry your own name will be tarnished by association.”

“So, we let him go free? When we know of his crimes? Of his intentions?”

“Would that sit right with you, Bren?”

Between them, Leofric spluttered and coughed up a chuckle.

“I am sorry,” said Bren, through gritted teeth. “Does this amuse you, father?”

Wearily, Leofric said, “Not at all. I just thought you were smarter than this.”

Ikithon approached Bren with gentle reassurances. “You do not need to decide tonight,” he said. “You do not need to decide at all if you wish to leave it to me.”

Bren gave a curt nod.

* * *

It was decided by Bren in the early hours of the morning. Beside him slept Astrid, at ease in her ignorance. When it was time to rise, Ikithon was nowhere to be found. This was not unusual. The man had business all over. But Bren spent the entire day in restless self-loathing. He could not bear keeping his verdict unannounced, did not want Ikithon to believe him weak-willed.

Like a dog to its master, Bren bounded to greet Ikithon upon his return.

“I know what I must do,” he said, voice low but unwavering.

Ikithon merely raised his eyebrows as he unfastened his coat. Bren clasped his hands together tightly behind his back in the hope it would stop him from shaking. He did not want his impatience to be mistaken for uncertainty.

Finally, Ikithon turned to him and said, “I knew you would choose wisely.”

“I have not told you my choice yet.”

“Call it faith,” he said, producing the same brass key from the night before. The key that never left his person. Until that moment. “Here.” And the key was his for the taking. “I will not rush you. I cannot imagine the strength it will take you to set things right. But I have long suspected you of being a stronger man than I am.”

Bren unclasped his hands.

* * *

If not for Napoleon, Bren might never have suspected the truth. The tide had barely turned against the Germans when Ikithon gave the command to run.

“If we are captured or killed,” he reasoned. “We will be of no use whatsoever.”

They kept underground as they moved eastwards. None of them have any questions for Ikithon other than ‘where to next?’ for months on end. But growling stomachs test even the strongest bonds of loyalty. Whenever Ikithon left them in whatever dark cellar they had bribed their way into, Wulf would crumble.

Three bottles of cheap wine between them and he would hug his knees with his bulging arms. “We are going too far,” he said. “How can we stop Napoleon from here?”

“With our wits,” said Astrid.

“Calm yourself, Wulf,” said Bren. “You will get to put those terrific muscles to use soon enough.”

Wulf gave a hollow laugh and said, “We cannot fall to the revolutionaries. I have sacrificed too much.”

Wulf’s words pierced right through Bren’s wine haze. But, before he could question exactly what Wulf meant by that, Astrid had beaten him to it.

“What exactly have you sacrificed?” she asked.

The uneasy tone of her voice only served to further shake his haze. His eyes flickered to inspect her rapidly paling face. Meanwhile, Astrid and Wulf continued to stare one another down. Someone had to make the first offering.

Bren cleared his throat, drawing the full attention of his comrades, before saying, “I executed my father.”

“He was a traitor?” said Astrid.

“That is what I was told. You were told the same?”

“More wine,” said Wulf, scrambling to his feet.

That particular cellar was composed of three rooms. One had a bed for Ikithon, one had a hard floor for his three students, and one was piled high with foul wine. Wulf let the door to their empty dormitory slam behind him.

In a little more than a whisper, Astrid said, “I thought you told me everything.”

When he turned to look at her with a raised brow, he saw she was smirking.

“Funny,” he breathed. “I thought the same of you.”

* * *

Ikithon returned with a halfway decent haul. Perhaps it was luck on his part that he scored what was, relatively speaking, a feast on that of all nights. Or perhaps, and Bren became surer of this as the years passed, he had suspected their growing discontent. Though he could not have known it would be that night that more than just wine had been shared in his absence.

Astrid and Wulf kept their gazes low, speaking only to offer gratitude to their master for good butter and freshly cooked meat. In lieu of cutlery, Bren was forced to poke at his sausage with dust-marred fingers.

“Not hungry, Bren?” asked Ikithon.

“I think something must have turned my stomach,” he replied.

“Probably the wine,” said Ikithon.

“No. The wine is helping.” Bren put aside all pretence of eating and seized the wine bottle that sat on the floor between the four of them. “Tell me, Master Ikithon, what were the circumstances which led to every one of our fathers becoming conspirators against the crown?”

Wulf and Astrid both looked to him in wide-eyed panic. To Bren’s surprise, Ikithon did not so much as flinch. He took his time finishing chewing his mouthful and dabbed his mouth with a napkin before setting down his plate.

“The three of you are from the same region. You grew up within miles of one another. When a conspiracy began to grow in the south, it did not take long to spread to all three of your villages.”

Ikithon spoke with such certainty that Bren’s resolved wavered a little. His gaze dropped to his knees. With his remaining strength, he said, “And why were we led to believe we were each alone in our sacrifice?”

“I did not think it was my place to expose your family secrets. There was no rule that you could not tell one another. As you can see, I am not angry with you. Although, I would prefer a less accusatory tone. Do not forget all that I have given you. I know you might struggle to be grateful given our current circumstance…”

“No,” said Bren quickly. “No. I have not forgotten. We have not forgotten what we owe you.”

It was left at that for a week before Bren’s spiralling thoughts had him questioning once more.

“Can you explain the order of events,” he said. “Which of our fathers was discovered first?”

“Yours, Bren. Then Astrid’s and the Eadwulf’s. It was a domino effect of sorts. One led to another. With several other men in between and beyond.”

“It is a shame that they could not appreciate that they were betraying everything their children was working so hard to maintain.”

“As I have said to you before, it is a tragedy when a father cannot accept his son exceeding him. Or his daughter.”

It did not feel like his master was lying to him and yet Bren could not stop himself from wondering. Astrid told him again and again to not think on it as she pointed her pistol to every doorway. Bren felt the cold burn of his own pistol in his pocket. He desperately did not want to ever fire it again. As he drifted off to sleep, back covered in bruises, he saw visions of his father’s final moments.

Come nightfall, they resumed their journey east. Bren fell to the back of their party, keeping an eye on every side road and alleyway they passed. Finally, he saw what he believed was his best chance at escape. He ran and did not look back. He pushed west every day and did not look back. He held up whoever he had to in order to finance his passage to England and did not look back. He hid in dense woodland, holding up carriages with a gun that was likely long overdue maintenance. From there, he had the full intention of robbing his way to America. That was until he was found by Miss Therad.

Bren had been so focused on the road that he did not notice her striding between the tree trunks. Gun in hand, she said, “You must be the dirty German who has been robbing in my territory.”

She was not wrong on any of her claims. Still, he felt a little offended.

“Hands up,” she said with a smirk. She did not strike him as taking this encounter particularly seriously. “Your money or your life.”

Hands up, he gestured down at his dirt-streaked attire with a nod and said, “Do I look as though I have a single coin to my name?”

“Not at all.”

“Then why rob me?”

“Because I just saw you hold up that carriage. Enough of this. Show me your loot. Just keep one hand in the air.”

He had no choice but to obey. One by one, he pulled trinkets from his pockets, tossing the majority of them on the dirt ground between them.

“I believe my employer might appreciate you bringing him these gifts in person.”

“Who is your employer?”

By way of reply, she produced a small card and tossed it onto the treasure pile. With one eye on her pistol, Bren crouched down to pick it up and read.

_ The Gentleman _

_ A Man of Many Gifts _

The woman said, “Go to Labenda in Norfolk.”

“And if I do not?”

The woman shrugged, lowering her gun, and said, “You can keep your lavish forest lifestyle. And pray that your crimes catch up with you.”

* * *

Norfolk was a lot closer to Napoleon than Bren had wanted to settle, but he was growing tired of being hungry. His next steal was a grey-speckled steed which he rode until he found the village of Labenda. When he entered the Evening Nip, a shabby-looking inn in an otherwise uneventful village, he knew felt certain he was in the right place.

Only one table was occupied. Three older men glanced up at Bren when he entered then immediately returned to their silent drinking. The woman behind the bar stopped pretending to clean a glass as he approached and glanced over her shoulder towards a door that he had no doubt led to some hidden place.

“Excuse me,” said Bren, pulling out the Gentleman’s card. “Does this mean anything to you?”

He had been right about the hidden place. The cellar of the Evening Nip was slightly more lively than the bar above. He glanced around at the tables but could not see the woman who had invited him there at gunpoint. Instead, he saw a man with no teeth laughing beside a second, wheezing, gentleman. Two men who looked to be brothers were bickering at another table, and in the centre of the room, the tallest couple he had ever seen were waltzing without accompaniment. None of them were this fabled Gentleman.

The lady who led him into the cellar, walked over to a wall and knocked. A moment later, the wall cracked open to reveal a man with a long, dark ponytail and a finely embroidered burgundy jacket.

“Ah,” he said fondly, as though greeting an old friend. “You must be the German.”

“Please,” said Bren. “Call me Caleb. Caleb Widogast.”

“And you can call me Mr Dosal. Please, come in.”

It was a dingy office for a man in such a fine jacket, but it was far and away the most luxurious room Bren had been inside for a very long time.

“So, Mr Widogast, I understand that you are a criminal.”

“Um. Yes. I suppose that is true.”

“And you work alone?”

“I do.”

“That is very dangerous. You need connections or you’ll wind up with a rope around your neck.”

“I am good at staying hidden.”

“Not too good. Miss Therad tracked you down within a week.”

Bren could not argue with that.

“I have grand plans, you know?” said Mr Dosal.

“I think I have had enough of grand plans.”

“Ah, but you are thinking of politics. Of war. I am speaking of grandeur.”

“Wealth for wealth’s sake?”

“Oh, it’s much safer than wealth for the sake of anything else. You pledge your loyalty to one faction, and you lose your head the minute their enemies seize power. I am not interested in gambling my life on something so contrary.”

Bren could not reasonably disagree with this point, however bitter.

“Tell me then,” he said. “What your grand plans are.”

Dosal leaned back in his chair, pride shining from his cocked grin, and said, “I am going to ingratiate myself into fine society. Make myself a proper gentleman.”

“And how will you do that?”

“Take my small fortune and put it into a house. Up the way from here there is a stretch of land I have my eye on.”

“Forgive me if I am being dense, but are you telling me that your grand plan is building yourself a home?”

“If you want to simplify it.”

“And you would like me to go out into the world and help you fund this project by any means necessary?”

“Not by any means. I have my morals. Besides, highway robbery, a time-honoured art in this country, is being cracked down on. I was thinking of shifting my focus to horse theft.”

“Might I suggest… I am not the most skilled thief in the world. I am, however, good with paperwork. Good with numbers. Good with persuasion believe it or not. If you let me hang up my pistol, I might be able to help make this home a reality sooner than expected.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“And what is a man who has such a talent for administration doing living in the woods, hoping someone moderately wealthy passes through to fund a few warm meals?”

“We are all entitled to our secrets are we not?”

Dosal shrugged and said, “Very well. But I will need your real name.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, Caleb Widogast is all well and good, but I need a little leverage. Just in case you thought it clever to attempt to betray me.”

There were benefits to honesty, he knew, as much as there were risks. But if this man was in any way connected to Ikithon then he would not need to ask for his name.

Bren’s lips trembled as he whispered, “Bren Ermendrud.”

* * *

News of his mother’s death reached him through a slow swinging vine. By way of Dosal’s continental network. It turned out that, without a husband or son to offer support, Una had not been able to cover the cost of fire. Damp housing had infected her chest, taking her quickly. He never did find out what happened to Frumpkin.

And what had any of it mattered in the end? Napoleon had come, Napoleon had gone, and through it all, Bren had hunched over in dark rooms. Without a hand in play.

Bren Ermendrud became Caleb Widogast. He distanced as much as he could from his own history. Dosal was so impressed with his skills that, by the time the house was built, Caleb was his right-hand man. He had his own office, he bought books on planting a vegetable garden, and he considered getting a cat.

It was not much but it was more than he deserved. He did not think to ask for more.

But then his dark office was brightened by a charming young woman who refused to knock or close the door behind her for the sake of propriety. She rolled down the slope outside his window and rekindled a feeling within him that he had believed dead for good.

As he sat in that same office, with Astrid’s letter in his hand, Caleb could not help but let his decision be affected by Miss Lavorre. If he left, then he would need to explain his absence to her. He ought to stay. He could live the remainder of his life in service of her happiness without a thought for his past.

His eyes flickered between the letter and the closest candle. Then, with a sigh, he stuffed it back in his desk drawer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!! I missed writing Jester so much this chapter but she'll be back next time
> 
> please comment/kudos if you enjoyed <3


	22. The Very Last Drop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to @oftennot my beautiful beta

“Here I am once more in this Scene of Dissipation & vice, and I begin already to find my Morals corrupted.”- Jane Austen, Letters

* * *

After the seventh night of waking up in a cold sweat from dreams of Ikithon riding up to the Myriad, Caleb regretfully made up his mind to go to London before what waited there came to him.

The moment he was sure Dosal was in his office, Caleb went to knock for him.

“Come in!”

Caleb ducked inside.

“Ah!” said Dosal, pushing aside his papers with a smile. “How can I help you, Widogast? Or are you here to help me? I forget where we are in the cattle sale.”

As Caleb took a seat, he said, “The cows are sold but have not yet been moved. George is seeing to that at the moment.”

“Excellent. I never would have thought cows were so lucrative.”

“Well, the more something is depended upon, the more people will pay for it.”

“What is the matter? You are even less enthusiastic than normal. I can only blame so much on your nationality. Is it a woman? I know you have spent a lot of time with my daughter,” he said with a frown. “This better not be you asking my permission for her hand.”

“You do not need to worry about me believing myself worthy of Miss Lavorre.”

“I’m not worried about you wanting to marry her. I would just rather you were enthusiastic about it.”

Caleb chuckled in spite of himself. Dosal’s piercing glare softened into a smile.

“You and your daughter share a talent for comedy,” said Caleb.

“If she had to inherit any of my qualities then I suppose there are worse.”

A pointed silence fell between them. Dosal showed no inclination for continuing their conversation until Caleb said what it was that he had come to say. The problem was that Caleb’s mouth was suddenly full of sand at the thought of confirming his plans. He swallowed hard and his mouth grew ever more arid.

Spluttering and raspy, he said, “Might we have a drink while we speak?”

“I never took you for a morning drinker,” said Dosal, already rummaging beneath his desk. “But I am nothing if not a good host.”

Dosal slammed two glasses between them and filled each one to the brim with what smelled very much like gin. Caleb reached for the glass closest to him, gulping down its contents as though it were water.

While Caleb gulped, Dosal raised his own glass and offered a half-hearted, “Cheers.”

A moment later, Caleb put down his empty glass with a wince. He had never been one for gin.

“More?” asked Dosal.

Still wincing, Caleb raised a hand and shook his head to decline. Then, without meaning to, he let out a long belch.

“Sorry,” he said.

“That’s quite alright. Tell me, should I finish my drink as well? How difficult is this conversation going to be for me?”

“I shouldn’t imagine it will be too difficult.”

“I will drink a little more before you speak just in case.”

Half his drink down, Dosal gave Caleb a nod to indicate that he was ready. Caleb had a sneaking suspicion that this preamble had been for his benefit. He did notice that when he went to speak, his words did not come out quite so raspy as they had beforehand.

“Some personal business has come up,” he began. “I need to ride to London as soon as possible.”

“Very well. You have been to London before. Always at my orders, of course, but I do not hold any of you captive.”

“I know. It is just that I do not know how long I will be gone for.”

“Widogast, you are by far the most dedicated and capable person I have ever employed. You are welcome to take as much time as you need.”

Caleb nodded, mouth drying again as he asked, “What if I do not come back?”

Dosal fixed him with a curious stare and said, “Would that be of your own volition?”

“No.”

“Then I would send people after you,” he said with a shrug.

“Surely my skills are not so unique that my recovery is worth such trouble?”

“Not so unique, no. But you are family.”

Caleb was struck by both the sentiment and the simplicity with which it was offered. As though it was obvious. As though he should know, without question, that he was one of Dosal’s own.

“I,” he began, breaking off to clear his throat. “I am honoured. But I would rather not be followed by anyone. If I fall into any danger it is no one’s fault but my own. There is no need to risk anyone else’s safety.”

“How noble of you.” Caleb shrugged. Dosal pressed on, “But I cannot promise to respect your wishes. In the meantime, take one of my guns. I worry that if you use your own pistol, you will do more damage to yourself than the enemy.”

“Thank you.”

“And I know that I shouldn’t have to say this but do keep in touch. Or else I might set the hounds on your trail before any danger befalls you.”

* * *

Caleb packed a satchel of necessities. This included Astrid’s letter, a single change of clothes, half a loaf of bread, a purse containing a small fraction of the coin he had saved, a few scraps of parchment, a pen, and one of Dosal’s pistols. It was heavier than his own and sat strangely inside of his jacket. The lack of familiarity was a small comfort, but a comfort all the same.

There were also affairs which needed to be set in order. He wrote out a detailed summary of what work he would be leaving unfinished along with suggestions for how to proceed in certain matters. To his great displeasure, it was not long before he had little left to do before leaving. In fact, there was only one task left.

He walked to Labenda, meaning to rest Jannik’s hooves before the journey. Still, he could not deny that he appreciated the time to think over what he would say. As he hopped over yet another stile and into a field just as muddy as the one before, he caught sight of the Little Chateau on the horizon. With a sigh, he continued his march onwards. Then, between the wildflowers, a rustle of movement caught his eye.

Squinting to see, he called out, “Miss Lavorre? Is that you?”

Miss Lavorre, who had been crouching, stood at his words. With one hand clutching a fistful of flowers, she used the other to wave at him. He swept the hat from his head and gave her a bow.

“Mr Widogast!” she cried. “Have you come to visit me?”

Despite the distance between them, he could make out her smile. Hat in his hands and hands behind his back, he walked over to where she stood so they might have a quieter conversation.

The closer he got, the clearer he saw her. Her dark hair was pinned back and half-shrouded in a floral bonnet. Her dress was a soft yellow, making her look a perfect part of the sunset-soaked field of flowers. By her feet sat a wicker basket, full to the brim with wildflowers. From their tangled roots to their withering petals.

“You have been busy,” he said.

Miss Lavorre gave a glance over her shoulder as though someone might hear her when she whispered, “I am stealing them for our garden.”

“I would say your garden has a far greater need of these flowers than this field. It has more than enough as it is.”

“Those are my thoughts exactly,” she laughed.

He smiled and hoped that his discomfort did not shine through it. He had no doubt that it did.

“Miss Lavorre,” he said softly. “I am afraid that I have come to bid you farewell.”

“Farewell?” she asked, starting to frown. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere particularly interesting. I just have some business to attend to in the city.”

“Oh. Well, you have been to the city before. It isn’t very far.”

“No. It is not. But I am not sure how long I will be required to stay there.”

“Oh,” she repeated, eyes falling to the flowers she held as she fiddled with their stems. He was worried she might tear them, though he did not say as much. “Will it be longer than a week?”

“I’m really not sure. If I knew, I would tell you. I might be gone only a few days. I might be gone for a lot longer.” She nodded. Hastily, he added, “I am only telling you in case of the latter. I did not want you to be cross with me if I was not around the next time you saw fit to bother me.”

“It will be very boring here without you. Not that you should hurry back! If you don’t want to hurry back. If you realise that you miss us all so much that you made a big mistake then you should come back right away. But otherwise… you should feel free to go wherever you want for as long as you want.”

He watched her babble as she picked at her flowers, and he felt as though his heart had thrown itself at his ribcage. His love for her was in danger of spilling forth.

Blinking back tears, he said, “I will return as soon as I am able.”

Miss Lavorre looked up at him with a sweet smile. “Here,” she said, thrusting the slightly damaged bouquet at him. “Take these with you. In case you miss the country.”

Half-breathless, he took them from her and said, “Thank you.” He wanted to say he was sorry for leaving her, to make sure that she knew he would forget his business in London and linger beside her for as long as she required his company. But he was overestimating his importance. Yes, she would feel his absence, but it would not cut her to the bone. There were plenty who adored her and well they should. This farewell, he knew, was for his own sake more than it was for hers.

“I should go,” he said.

“Alright. Well, hurry back. Or don’t. Come back exactly when you want to.”

“Good day, Miss Lavorre.”

“Good day, Mr Widogast.”

He did not look back at her until he was back over the stile. She had returned to picking wildflowers, head bowed. Everything within him ached as he forced himself to keep on walking.

* * *

Once his satchel was tightly strapped to Jannik’s back, Caleb riffled through to check he had everything that he needed. One by one, he removed every item, inspected it, and placed it back delicately. He counted out every single coin. Then, finally, he considered the flowers. They were a both bent and battered by Miss Lavorre’s hands and the tight space of the satchel, but they smelled of the outdoors. He ran the knuckle of his forefinger over the petals of a bluebell and gave a wistful sigh. It was time to go.

He kept a steady pace until morning. He had not needed to push his horse so hard since his days on the run, save for recovering Miss Lavorre’s letter, and he did not intend to punish the poor creature for Ikithon’s sake.

Upon reaching Chelmsford, he forked out a few coins for a room. It felt safer to pay out of pocket rather than travel to where Dosal had some control. He wanted to separate his two worlds as much as possible. Should he run into a current colleague, he might also run the risk of being questioned. What work was he away on? Did he require any help? He had become too approachable in recent months. He imagined Louis Therad hounding him for further feedback on his poetry, following him into the belly of the beast. In that case, it would be Miss Therad who he ought to fear rather than Master Ikithon.

He woke in the mid afternoon and made it to London before morning. He was glad to arrive in darkness. It felt safer than daylight.

The address Astrid had provided him was not one he recognised. Caleb’s dealings in London had thus far been restricted to the backs of barrooms and cramped legal offices. He had expected to find something similar that night, but as he checked the letter against the street sign, he could not be mistaken. This was the closest he had ever been to St James’ Square.

At the bottom of a set of wide, white stairs, he dismounted Jannik and tied him to the nearest post. It was not too late to turn back, but it would not demolish the house before him. With a sigh, he collected his satchel and knocked.

A middle-aged butler greeted him with a German accent, “Sir, I must ask you to return during appropriate visiting hours.”

Slipping into German, Caleb said, “I am sorry to intrude. I believe I am expected. My name is Bren Ermendrud.”

The butler’s eyes widened in rapid understanding. Within seconds, Caleb was welcomed inside the entrance hall. London townhouses were tighter than country estates, though they still managed to cram in an excessive amount of marble.

“I will light a fire in the parlour,” said the butler, gesturing to the first door on the right.

Caleb followed him into a dark room which slowly took shape as the candles were lit, and the fire was set. It did not live up to the excessive grandeur of Ikithon’s estate back home, but it was certainly a far cry from dusty cellars. The back wall was lined with bookshelves. The sofas and chairs were all a rather palatable pale blue, embroidered with gold. The ceiling was painted with small, blooming roses. Ruefully, he thought, Miss Lavorre would approve.

The butler asked, “Any refreshments, sir?”

“Perhaps a stiff drink.”

“Of course.”

Once he was served, Caleb was left to sit and drink alone. It must have been close to half an hour that he spent in silent contemplation. He had barely touched his whisky and his eyes began to grow bleary from staring at the dying fire for so long.

Then the door to his left swung open and caused Caleb to whip his head away from the fireplace. He had company. There before him, for the first time in almost ten years, Eadwulf.

Arms crossed and feet planted firmly in the doorway, he said, “I never for a second believed you would come. I owe Astrid an obnoxious amount of money.”

Wulf had hardly changed. Only aged. His strong jaw was still clenched. His dark hair was still cropped just as short. Caleb’s hair had been that short once.

With a shaky breath, Caleb said, “Never bet against Astrid.”

“I was betting against you.”

Caleb gave a conceding nod before saying, “You look good, Wulf. At least, in contrast to the last time I saw you.”

“Not much of a contest there,” said Wulf, finally stepping into the room and slumping into the armchair across from Caleb. He then swiftly brought up his large fists to palm at his heavy-set eyes.

“There was no need to rise so early,” said Caleb. “I would have waited.”

“I have yet to go to bed.”

“Work?”

“What else.” Caleb snorted, raising his drink to his lips. Wulf fixed him with a tired glare. “What is it that you have been doing? Seeing as you have abandoned serving your country.”

“Oh, I have been serving a crime syndicate. I am sure you knew that, though.”

“I know very little.”

“Do you know how I was found?”

With a quirked brow, Wulf gestured to the room at large and said, “You must have noticed that we have recovered a certain standard of living. Our party was instrumental in weakening Napoleon’s hold on our lands.”

“That is very impressive.”

“If you had had more faith in our master, you might have been a part of it.”

“Perhaps.” Caleb polished off the rest of his drink in one gulp. “What are you working on now? Quashing all hope of a German revolution?”

“I am sure it is none of your business.”

“That much is true.”

“Why did you come?”

Caleb pondered the question as he inspected the inside of his glass. In spite of his efforts to empty it, a single drop of liquor remained. If he turned the glass, the amber bead trickled this way and that. Of everything inside that room, this was all he could stand to look at.

Dosal’s voice, years old now, rang out in his mind.  _ This need for control _ , said his memory,  _ will be the death of you _ . Caleb had recognised the truth of this statement even if he had shrugged it off. Perhaps if he had known that Dosal was speaking from experience, he might have carried it for longer. Then again, he thought, tipping the glass so that the very last drop trickled onto the rug below, probably not.

“I suppose,” he began, “I didn’t believe I had much choice in the matter. If you knew where I worked then you could have come to fetch me yourself. I have no desire, Wulf, for a meeting between my old and new friends.”

“Are you embarrassed by us?”

“Not you.”

Wulf’s lip curled in disgust and he practically snarled the words, “I will never understand why he still favours you.”

Caleb was sorry more than he was offended. But Wulf would not want his sympathy. If anything, Wulf was trying to lure him into a brawl. He had not unclenched his jaw or fists for their entire conversation.

Caleb asked, “When will the others be awake?”

Wulf shrugged.

“You do not need to wait with me,” said Caleb. “Unless, of course, you are standing guard.”

“I think I just needed to see it to believe it. I had thought you might have been killed a week after leaving us.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you.”

Wulf got to his feet sharply, marching towards the door. Before leaving, he paused, and turned to say, “I am… glad that you are not dead.”

With a slight smile, Caleb replied, “And I you.”

He did not know if Wulf heard him. The door slammed closed a moment later.

* * *

Day had barely broken before Caleb was disturbed once more. He was grateful for it. The waiting was suffocating.

“Mr Ermendrud,” said the butler. “Master Ikithon will see you now.”

Gathering his satchel and his crumbling courage, Caleb followed the butler’s lead up the narrow stairway and to the end of the corridor. There, the butler gave a low bow, and left him to fend for himself.

Caleb was not sure if he was expected to knock but he did so anyway. Within seconds, the door was opened. He could make out a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. The details of these objects were obscured, however, by the far more vivid figure of Astrid Beck.

Her dirty blonde hair was scraped back into a rough bun, with several strands hanging loose over her face. Between the strands, she had the same tired eyes as Wulf, as he was sure he had himself. He had to wonder if she had slept either. Her sharp features had grown sharper, but he was glad to see she had filled out once more. Starvation had not suited any of them.

“Bren,” she breathed.

“Astrid,” he said, feeling as much as hearing the quiver of his lip. “It is good to see you.”

Before Astrid could reply, there was a call from the bedroom behind her.

Master Ikithon cried out, “Is that Bren?”

“It is,” said Astrid, sill looking at Caleb. Then, glancing back, she asked, “Would you like to speak to him alone?”

“If you don’t mind.”

As Astrid stepped forwards, Caleb took a great stride back. It had been instinct more than anything. She gave him a sorrowful look before disappearing into the adjacent room. Caleb suddenly found himself missing the fire from the parlour below. Somewhere, someone had cracked open a window. Cold air toyed with the hair on the back of his neck.

“Bren,” beckoned Ikithon.

Caleb stepped over the threshold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed! please leaves kudos/comments and/or come yell at me here or on tumblr <3


	23. Playing Favourites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to my beta oftennot!!!

“If I could not be persuaded into doing what I thought wrong, I will never be tricked into it.”― Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

* * *

The wrinkled form of Trent Ikithon was propped up by at least a dozen throw pillows. His bedsheets were pulled so tightly that the shape of his spindly legs could be made out from beneath. Caleb had never known his schoolmaster to be sturdy, but his frailty had become far more pronounced.

“Bren,” greeted Ikithon with something akin to fondness.

Caleb fidgeted with the air at his sides as he replied, “Good Morning.”

“I knew you would come.”

“I was led to believe you were close to death. I had rather hoped to catch you in the act.”

Ikithon smiled and said, “I am sorry to say that I am stronger than I look.” Raising a liver spotted hand, he gestured towards the wooden chair at his bedside. It was positioned in such a way that someone might sit and watch over him at all times. Caleb wondered how many hours Astrid had spent upon it. “Take a seat, Bren.”

“I would rather stand.”

The smile fell from Ikithon’s face. “You are not yet halfway into the room and you are already halfway out of the door,” he said.

“I am here, am I not? Will you not be satisfied until you have made a puppet of me? You are unhappy to see my stand. I am sure that, if I did sit, you would take issue with the position of my knees.” The words fell forth with a harshness he had hoped to withhold. If he could bare to look Ikithon in the eye at that moment, he was sure he would see signs of amusement. “Enough of this. Tell me why you have dragged me here.”

“As I understand it, Astrid has told you that I am not long for this world.”

“And what concern of mine is that? I am not your child. I am not your employed. I am  _ certainly  _ not your friend.”

“Ah Bren,” said Ikithon with a soft sigh. “In many ways you are all three.”

Caleb let out a cold laugh. “Well,” he said. “Does this mean I can expect an inheritance?”

Unflinching, Ikithon replied, “Yes.” Caleb only had a second to baulk before he pressed on, “I have won a sizeable degree of trust from the prince over the course of my career. When it is time for a changing of the guard, so to speak, he has asked that I appoint my own successor.”

Caleb blinked. He did not know if any stretch of time would be adequate to make sense of this proposition.

“Why?” he demanded. “Why involve me at all?”

Ikithon sat up slightly, taking some of the weight of his own body back from his myriad of pillows. Caleb froze in fear that he might rise completely. What he was capable of on his feet, Caleb could not say, but he was more comfortable with a prone Ikithon than a standing one.

As it became clear that Ikithon would rise no further, and Caleb struggled to shake off the surge of redoubled dread, Ikithon said, “You have qualities which distinguish you from your peers. Astrid and Eadwulf have proven their loyalty. Fiercely. But you, Bren, you have remade yourself. I am… impressed. To say the least.”

“I expected resentment.”

“On the contrary, I believe that your leaving us was an essential step in your journey. I had begun to suspect, for a while, that you needed space to flourish.”

Caleb’s fingers ceased fidgeting as he clenched his hands into fists. “You are implying that you planned my leaving.”

“Have you never wondered how it was we did not catch you?”

“You were younger then, but still an old man,” said Caleb. Ikithon grinned. Gaze cast down to the floor, Caleb bit out the words, “Even if that is true, what would make you believe that I would ever wish to become you?”

“I am sure you will bring your own flair to the position.”

“I have no interest in the position.”

“Then the question, Bren, is not why I brought you here, but why you came.”

Ikithon settled back against his pillows, chin still high and looking altogether less weary than when Caleb first saw him.

“Well,” said Caleb, unclenching his fists so he might clasp his hand behind his back. “If that is all…”

“Would you like me to offer you more?”

“No. No, you have done quite enough. Good day.”

“Keep in touch.”

* * *

Caleb left the room with measured steps, picking up the pace when the door swung closed behind him. His heart was in his ears as he pounded down the stairs. He would have run all the way from the last stair and out of the front door if he had not heard Astrid call out his name.

He halted before spinning on his heel, not seeing her right away. Then, a door that had been ajar swung open.

“Bren,” she breathed. “I thought I heard running. Are you leaving?”

“I should not have come.”

Astrid nodded and said, “But you are here now. And Wulf and I are having breakfast if you would like to join us.”

Accepting her offer would be unwise, he knew, but he had already made the mistake of coming to London. His stomach clenched with hunger. All he had eaten since leaving the Myriad was the bread he had packed. Breakfast was tempting. More tempting still was the possibility of information. Ikithon had tossed him scraps. Astrid and Wulf might offer something a little more substantial.

“Alright,” he said.

She smiled. He regretted his agreement the moment he started to follow her. But decision-making had never been his strongest suit.

Wulf sat at a heavily laden breakfast table; his plate piled astonishingly high. Caleb could not begrudge him his large appetite. Not when they had learnt, through their time as impoverished children and starving fugitives, that the security of steady meals might slip away at any moment. Best to make the most of what you had while you had it.

Astrid reclaimed her own seat. Her plate was not quite as piled upon as Wulf’s, but her serving was still generous. Still, there was enough left to feed another five people at least.

“Who is this for?” asked Caleb as he sat, keeping a reasonable distance from both of his old school fellows without positioning himself too far away for quiet conversation. “I cannot believe you are served such a spread every single morning.”

Wulf answered, “Ikithon requested that we impress you,” before ringing the small bell at his side.

In a flash, two servants appeared, setting the space in front of Caleb, and pouring him fresh tea.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Neither of the servants gave any indication that they had heard him. Once he was left alone with Astrid and Wulf once more, he considered the crisp, golden loaf of bread. It smelt freshly baked.

“Take it,” said Astrid. “It was baked for you.”

“That is, ah, my concern,” he replied.

With a roll of his eyes, Wulf reached across the table and seized the loaf. Tearing it in two, he held out one half for Caleb and took a great bite out of the other.

“Thank you,” said Caleb, not sure what else he could say. “The English are incapable of baking a decent loaf of bread.”

“How?” demanded Wulf. “It is so simple.”

Caleb shrugged and took a bite. He did not dare take anything else for his plate. Not even butter or jam. Miss Lavorre would be horrified. Thankfully, for reasons beyond measure, she was not there to see it.

Wulf noticed this and asked, “Why so cautious? You were happy to drink our whiskey just hours ago.”

“That was before I declined his offer.” Astrid and Wulf shared a wide-eyed look. “I am sure he offered the same to the both of you.”

“Not the both of us,” said Astrid.

“Not me,” clarified Wulf.

Caleb snorted, “Crafty.”

A minute passed where the only sounds emitted were those of chewing and swallowing. Then, with a scowl, Wulf broke the silence.

“What is so crafty about passing me over?” he asked.

Astrid answered, “Because you work best when you feel as though you have something to prove. Just as I work best when I am in second place. Just as Bren works best when he is fighting to retain his place as the favourite.”

“I highly doubt,” said Caleb. “That I am still the favourite.”

“I would not be so sure,” said Astrid.

Caleb turned his attention to her in full and said, “You wrote to me that he was dying.”

“I did.”

“Is that true?”

“He will not live forever.”

“I cannot argue against that.”

She gave a slightly smile. He pressed on, “And this is why you stay by his side? You are counting down the minutes until you can close his eyes and take his crown.”

Astrid’s silent smile was all the answer he needed.

“And you, Wulf,” he asked, turning his head to see Eadwulf with his arms crossed. “What is keeping you from walking out of that front door?”

Wulf’s arms tightened, his muscles straining against the tight fabric of his jacket, as he said, “Loyalty.”

“To that man?”

“To my country.”

“That is honourable. We cannot be sure Napoleon is not on his way back to seize power. Again.”

Wulf glared but said nothing further. Caleb took another bite of his bread. He was beginning to suspect he would not be welcome much longer. Eyes flickering from Wulf’s face, he saw that Astrid was still smiling. It did not take a great deal of staring to see that the smile did not reach her eyes.

Welcome or not, Caleb needed to step out of that house.

Clearing his throat, he said, “Thank you for your hospitality. I will take my leave.”

* * *

Astrid escorted him from the table and down the narrow hall.

“It is a shame you could not visit under more pleasant circumstances,” she said. “A house is always a colder when its master is out of sorts.”

“It would be colder if he was fit and healthy.”

They had reached the door yet neither of them reached to open it. Astrid glanced to her right, towards the staircase at the far end of the hall.

In a barely audible whisper, she said, “I will be surprised to find him still living after your talk.”

“I would be in a much better mood if I had left him dead.”

With a sigh, she reached to open the door for him. He stepped over the threshold but lingered to speak further.

“You know that there are paths other than this,” he said.

“I do. As does Wulf. This is the path we have chosen. It was the path you chose once.”

“I might have chosen differently if I had known this particular path would be paved with innocent blood.”

“You are referring to our fathers.”

“Among others. I am sure.”

Astrid went quiet with consideration. Her brow still creased ever so slightly when she needed a moment to think. It made his heart ache for their youth. It made his stomach turn for their present.

After a moment, she said, “They did not die for nothing. It made us who we are. We have been improved. We are capable of making the decisions that others would flinch at. The world needs people like us.”

“That is…” he searched for the right word before settling firmly on, “Nonsense. You are wasting your brilliant mind on justifying cruelty.”

She let out a hollow laugh.

Voice breaking, he said, “Goodbye, Astrid.”

“Until we meet again, Bren.”

Caleb bit his tongue to keep from arguing against her parting words. After all, his determination to escape his past had done little to make it so. They might very well meet again, in spite of his desperately wishing otherwise.

This miserable thought rode east with him for the remainder of the day. He had no fixed destination, only the need to put London behind him. Closer to home than to London, yet still a great many miles away, Caleb stopped at the first inn he spotted near sunset.

“Excuse me,” he said to the barkeep. “How much to stay here and stable my horse?”

“For how long?”

The question was uncomfortable. In a desire to throw it off as quickly as possible, Caleb replied, “A week. To start with.”

When he sat down to write to Dosal later that evening, he did not give an estimated return date. He simply promised that he was alive, alone, and would not be back before the week’s end.

* * *

In Mr Widogast’s absence, Jester had dreamed up several improvements to the game of croquet. The first thing she changed was to place each of the hoops in a single line for jumping over. The next was to paint a target on the tree with the thickest trunk. Now, the game was played by leaping across the line of hoops, mallet in hand, while another player tossed a ball your way. The goal was to hit the ball while still in the air and to hit the target. If accomplished both you were awarded two points, one and you were awarded one point. Neither Jester nor Kitty had won a single point each.

Jester was determined to change that. As Kitty tossed the ball gently towards her, Jester took to the air and swung wildly. For the first time since the inception of Better Croquet, her mallet struck true. It soared well past the target, but it was a point all the same.

Once she had landed, Jester hopped into the air again with a cheer.

“See!” she cried, turning to Kitty. “I told you we just needed to keep trying.”

Kitty called back, “I am happy to be proven wrong.”

Jester beamed with pride as she squinted to see where the ball had landed. Pulling down her bonnet to better shield her eyes, she noticed it had rolled down the slope. She gave a small grunt of displeasure before marching off to collect it.

Thankfully, it had come to a stop before the small stream, having nestled itself in a particularly thick patch of grass. As she crouched down, there was a clattering of hooves on gravel. Her heart started. Neglecting the ball entirely, she leapt back to her feet.

A figure on horseback galloped across the driveway, too far away for her to make out either the horse or the rider. She tried to temper her excitement. It could very well be Mr Widogast. It could also be any other employee or acquaintance of her father’s. Celebration would be premature. Upon reaching that conclusion, she took off at a sprint. As she ran, she tried to rack her brain for a memory of Mr Widogast’s horse. She could not recall the size or colour. Why did she not pay more attention to who rode which horse?

The horse and rider slipped into the stables. Jester continued her pursuit.

“Jester?” cried Kitty, as Jester whipped past.

Jester slowed enough to reply, “I think Mr Widogast is back!” before picking up the pace.

“Wait!”

Jester did not wait for Kitty, but she did shoot her an encouraging smile over her shoulder as Kitty joined the race. Jester reached the stables first. Kitty arrived a moment later, clutching her side and breathing in an uneven rhythm. Jester was sure that when the rush wore off, she would feel similar. Right there and then, though, she felt she could run to Labenda and back without breaking.

Seven sets of horses’ eyes were upon her. She could not tell, right away, which one was the most recent arrival. Then, a stall door swung open. There was no obstacle between her and the stall, but Jester rose onto the tips of her toes and craned her head to see anyway. Out walked a young man who she recognised at once.

“Oh,” she breathed, lowering onto her heels. “Louis. I did not know we were expecting you.”

“Miss Lavorre,” he greeted with a low bow. “And Miss Cree!”

Kitty, appearing at Jester’s side and taking her arm, said, “Louis, you know you are free to call me Kitty.”

“Very well.”

Unable to temper the disappointment in her voice, Jester asked, “What brings you to the Myriad?”

“Business I am afraid. Your father asked me to help him finalise some deals, to look over his books.”

“But that is Mr Widogast’s job.”

“Exactly,” said Louis, brushing invisible dust from his coat. “I understand Mr Widogast is away on personal business. Until he is back, someone needs to fill his shoes, so to speak.”

Jester scowled as Kitty squeezed their arms tighter together.

“It is a pleasure to have you,” said Kitty. “Until Mr Widogast returns.”

“I’m sure you will not have to stay long. Mr Widogast will likely be back any day now,” said Jester.

“We can only hope,” sighed Louis. “I had to leave the lovely Miss Elliot in Brighton.”

Jester asked, “What happened to Miss Duffey?”

Louis let out a soft whimper and said, “It was not to be. No matter. Miss Elliot has a far more pleasant face.”

“Well,” said Jester. “I hope that the two of you are reunited shortly. Tell me, did my father give any indication how long you will be required to stay?”

“Until Mr Widogast has returned.”

“Right. And do you know exactly when that might be?”

“I haven’t the fainted idea, Miss Lavorre,” said Louis with a frown. “Was there something you needed from him? I’m sure I could see this need, whatever it is, is attended to.”

“Will you play croquet with us?” she challenged.

Kitty snorted as Louis said, “No. I am not a sportsman.”

“We improved it,” said Jester. “We changed all the rules, and it is much more difficult and far less boring.”

“You cannot change the rules of a game!” he cried, seeming genuinely affronted by the mere suggestion.

Jester pouted, pulling her arm free of Kitty’s clutches. It was growing warm in the stables and the stench of the horses was dizzying.

“Well,” she said, walking backwards into the fresh air. “It is nice to see you, Mr Louis. Kitty and I need to clean up our game now.”

* * *

Jester had intended to pack away the croquet set in irritated silence. Every so often, Kitty would open her mouth to speak before shaking her head. As though thinking better of it. This irritated Jester so much that she broke her previously desired silence.

“Is something the matter?” she asked. Kitty shot her a long, pitying look. “I do not know why you are looking at me like that. I won the game!”

Kitty smiled softly and said, “I am sorry that Mr Widogast has not yet returned.”

“Of course you are. I know that the two of you get along very well.”

“Well enough. Though, I would not say that we are close. Still, he is objectively better company than Louis. Mr Widogast has never once attempted to read me poetry.”

Jester laughed at that. In spite of herself.

“Jester,” said Kitty.

Her gentle tone was suffocating. Jester blinked rapidly, for fear of tears or disappointment escaping her eyes. Before Kitty could offer any further comfort, Jester said, “It  _ is  _ a shame that Mr Widogast is still away. I am certain he would appreciate Better Croquet.”

“Probably more than I.”

“Are you saying that you don’t like Better Croquet?” asked Jester sadly. “I invented it to distract you, you know. From how much you must miss Hannah.”

“I know! And it has been a fantastic distraction. I am just not very good at it.”

“Mr Widogast would not be good at it either. That would be half the fun.”

Kitty snorted and Jester laughed with her.

“Enough of this,” said Jester, putting aside Mr Widogast for the time being. “Mother and Nadine are expecting us home for dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!
> 
> please kudos/comment if you enjoyed or want to yell at me or anything <3


	24. Autumn Leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why was this update so quick? I have nothing better to do the world is ending have some jane austen inspired dungeons and dragons fanfiction
> 
> thank you to @Littlekoalawings for being my beta this chapter! <3

“His cold politeness, his ceremonious grace, were worse than anything,” Jane Austen, Persuasion

* * *

Another week passed without Mr Widogast’s return. He had not even written. With little else to do, Jester accompanied Kitty and her father to church that Sunday. Mere minutes into the service, she came to regret this decision. It would have been more entertaining to watch her mother pick at the thread of yet another pillow so that it might be embroidered again with a different pattern. Stifling a yawn, she thought it might have been more entertaining to sprawl on her father’s lawn and watch the autumn leaves begin to fall.

She glanced to her right in the futile hope that Kitty was equally bored. In actuality, appeared enraptured. Jester glanced to her left and tried to get her father’s attention.

“Shhh,” he said. “I am pretending to pay attention.”

Jester scrunched up her face in frustration and reached for the prayer book in front of her, flipping through it in the hope of finding an entertaining read. Her mind found no solid footing. Instead, it drifted towards wondering what exactly it was that was keeping Mr Widogast in London for so long. Then towards widening the line of hoops in Better Croquet to make leaping more of a challenge. Then towards the pastries she would eat when church was over, and they retired to the Myriad for tea. While her mind did drift between all three thoughts throughout the remainder of the service, it was primarily the pastries which monopolised her attention.

It felt like an age, but church did end. Then came pastries and an attempt at implementing her newest adjustment to croquet. Jester felt as though she had done more than enough to fill the day by lunch and yet there were still so many hours left to work through. The long route home on foot still only brought her into the early afternoon.

She sprawled herself on the parlour floor, nestling into the large rug. Above her, her mother picked at the thread of a pillow.

“Mama,” said Jester, rolling onto her front so that she could push herself up on her elbows. “Do you miss Bath?”

Marion gave a small noise in surprise, setting aside her needlework. With a faint frown, she said, “I am not certain. I saw little of Bath beyond the buildings I lived and worked in. If anything,” she took a thoughtful pause, “I miss performing.”

Jester slammed her palms to the floor and cried out, “Oh!” She wanted to be on her feet for this. With a little fumbling and far less elegance than she had imagined, she found herself upright. “If you miss singing then why don’t you ask father to sing at his next party. Or at his secret bar?”

Marion let out a nervous laugh and said, “I’m not sure that that would be such a good idea.”

“But you must be so bored! All you do is stick pillows with needles.”

“I do not mind sticking pillows with needles,” said Marion with a shrug. “It is nice to have a little time for the simpler things in life.”

“Even though you miss performing?”

“Darling, it is not the worst thing in the world to miss things. I remember, the first time I held you in my arms, I knew that my heart would break with every single day you grew. I still ache to rock that little girl to sleep, but there is nothing in the world I would accept in return for the woman you are today.”

Jester grumbled. It felt rather like her mother was derailing Jester’s wonderful suggestion with a tenuous appeal towards sentimentality.

“Jester,” said Marion softly, reaching out to give her hand a squeeze. “It is not your job to worry about me. I am perfectly content.”

“Content is not overjoyed.”

“Well, no, but who is overjoyed every moment of every single day?” Jester could not help but roll her eyes. Marion squeezed her hand again. “Darling, if you wish to bring me joy you need only be yourself. My greatest moments of happiness come with the knowledge that your spirit is uncompromised.”

Jester melted beneath her mother’s words. It was yet another appeal to sentimentality, but she knew it was a genuine one. She was well aware of how fortunate she was to be so well loved. Tired though she was of her own happiness being prioritised above all else. Perhaps the uncompromised nature of her spirit was one of heroism. Or matchmaking. Or, at the very least, alleviating her mother’s boredom.

“Alright,” sighed Jester. “Without seeing father or tarnishing my spirit, what can we do to make this day pass quicker?”

“My dear, why on earth do you want the day to pass so desperately?”

Jester slipped her hand free of her mother’s gentle grasp and said, “Never mind. I will be in the garden if you need me.”

After giving a quick kiss on the cheek, Jester skipped her way outside. The garden was taking some sort of shape. It certainly looked less flat. Of course, she had not been able to tilt the land to create a slope, but she had, with some assistance from the servants, planted a plethora of wildflowers. It was silly, she supposed, to wish the days away. It was just that she could not help thinking how beautiful and whole everything would look when spring rolled around again.

* * *

Louis Therad was not Mr Widogast. Jester had no illusions in that respect. She did come to realise, however, that this did not mean she ought to discount the value of his presence. When she went to Mr Widogast’s office to invite Louis to join them for lunch, he was already packing away his morning’s work.

“Miss Lavorre,” he greeted cordially.

Jester was momentarily thrown by the brightness of the room. It had been some time she had thrown open those curtains. Until then, she had not realised how accustomed she had grown to the low light.

“Miss Lavorre?” Louis repeated as Jester simply blinked in silence.

“Oh,” she said, laughing. “Sorry. I just came to ask if you will be joining us for lunch?”

“Of course. I was just on my way.”

“We can go together then!”

Louis simply shrugged in response. As he got to his feet, she asked, “How are you liking having your own office?”

“I would prefer it if I had more time to write in it. I had no idea Mr Widogast was so inundated with work. It is no wonder he needed a break.”

Unable to stop herself, she frowned and said, “Well, he did have breaks here. We played croquet sometimes.”

As the words escaped her, she heard their inadequacy. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, wondering again what exactly Mr Widogast was doing. Perhaps, as Louis believed, he was merely taking a break. Still, she could not shake the memory of their farewell. He had seemed so sorry to be leaving.

“Miss Lavorre?”

Jester broke from her reverie with a shake of her head.

Louis said, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes. Everything is wonderful. I think I am just hungry. We should go to lunch! Why are we just standing here?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well then, let’s get moving!” she cried with false exasperation.

From that day on, she had no need to visit Mr Widogast’s office to retrieve Louis for lunches. He joined them without question, even on days when her father was too busy to allow for the break. In Mr Dosal’s absence, Louis would take to reading poetry. Some of it was his own. Some of it was William Blake. By the week’s end, Jester had a decided preference for Louis’ original work. It was not necessarily good, but it was entertaining. And, at times, disturbingly passionate.

“She is the star which steers my steed,” he read while Kitty sipped tea and Jester spread jam. “My bridle, my bride, my Beatrice. North is north, East is east, South is south, West is west. But Beatrice is every which way that I turn.” Then, putting down his journal, he said, “What do you think?”

Kitty made a rather large deal of dropping her fork on the floor while Jester said, “I love it. You should send it to her right now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Kitty said, “The jam is very good today. Is it blackcurrant?”

* * *

Louis sent the poem to his Miss Elliot right away. Jester knew it would take days to reach Brighton, and then days for a reply to arrive, but her excitement had her hovering around the Myriad even more regularly than usual. She could watch the leaves turn red as she watched the horizon for a figure to break it. Whether Miss Elliot’s reply or Mr Widogast himself came first, she was determined to not care. Never mind that, when Mr Widogast had still not returned by the time Jester intercepted a delivery man in the driveway, she felt every fraction of her body grow heavy with disappointment.

Forcing a smile, she seized the letter addressed to Louis. It would be another half an hour before lunch, and she could not wait that long to hear Miss Elliot’s thoughts. Jester ran straight for Mr Widogast’s office.

“She replied!” cried Jester, bursting through the door.

There, having been hunched over in near darkness, Mr Widogast bolted upright.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Even in the flickering candlelight, she could see that he did not look well. His clothes seemed to hang looser on him, and the dark circles that usually framed his blue eyes had grown both deeper and darker.

The pause before he stood, offering her a bow and a, “Miss Lavorre. I hope you are well.” could not have been longer than a second. The stretch of it, though, was excruciating.

“When did you get back?” she asked.

“Last night.”

“Last night?” she repeated with a weak laugh. “I have been with Kitty for most of the morning and she did not mention it.”

“I am sure Kitty did not know. I have only spoken with your father.”

“He did not tell me either.”

“No, he is attempting to make use of Louis at the Evening Nip.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling terribly silly for being so dumbstruck. To compensate, she began to babble. “Um… well. I have a letter here for Louis. I think it is from his most recent lady friend. Hopefully, she loved his poem and is on her way here to marry him. Or he could go and marry her now that you’re back.”

When she finally finished speaking, Mr Widogast said, “We can only hope.”

“So, I should probably take this to him right away,” she said, clutching at the letter so tightly it crumpled. “And stop bothering you. You are probably very busy trying to fix all the terrible work Louis did in your absence.”

A weak smile flickered upon his face. It was enough to keep her in his doorway a moment longer.

Softly, she said, “Mr Widogast, I hope you don’t mind me saying that you look awful.”

His smile strengthened as he replied, “I cannot take issue with the truth now, can I?”

“I just mean… Well, do not work yourself too hard.”

“I have been gone nearly a month, Miss Lavorre.”

“I know you have.”

“I have a lot to catch up on.”

“Alright,” she sighed, irritably. “I cannot force you to take care of yourself.” His mouth fell agape and, before he could reply, she forced a smile and added, “Anyway, I need to deliver a letter very urgently. You need to work. Not too hard, obviously. So, I should go.”

Face burning with embarrassment she hurried from the room. The door clicked shut behind her and she pressed her back against it. She was not entirely certain what had just happened, but she very much wanted to cry. He had not been cruel. In fact, he had been perfectly civil. And what had she expected? Was he not always proper? Was he not always guarded?

She exhaled sharply and pushed herself away from the door. What was the point of getting lost in her thoughts when she had a perfectly good ticket to distraction in her hands? Taking off at a run, she caught Blude and spilt forth her jumbled request for a carriage. She did not wait for confirmation that he had understood. She took off once more, skidding to a halt halfway across the parlour floor.

Kitty glanced up from her book with a puzzled expression and said, “I was going to presume, based on your wild eyes, that you had given Louis his letter, and that it had been good news. But I see you are still holding it.”

“Louis was not there. Mr Widogast has returned. So, I am going to the Evening Nip to deliver Louis’ letter. Would you like to join me?”

“When did Mr Widogast return?”

“Last night. But that is not important right now. What is important is that I hold the key to Louis Therad’s heart. So, we have to go.”

Kitty looked as though she wanted to say something else on the subject but must have thought better of it. With a shrug, she closed her book and got to her feet.

* * *

The five-minute carriage ride to Labenda proved far too long. It allowed for Kitty to give her several concerned glances while Jester loudly mused on Louis’ romantic future.

“I hope they will be married,” she said.

“He will certainly survive if they do not. No other man has quite the talent for falling in love that Louis does.”

“I think that this lady is special.”

“I am sure that Louis thinks the same. Just as he will think the same of the next one.”

Jester frowned at Kitty and said, “You think she has rejected him.”

“If she has any sense at all… yes, she will have rejected him.” Jester could not help but pout. Kitty gave another concerned glance as she added, softly, “You ought not to take it personally.”

“I’m not!”

“Jester,” said Kitty, softening her voice even further so that Jester felt as though she was being tightly bound in silks. “If there is something troubling you, then I would beg of you to confide in me. I am very good at keeping secrets.”

Jester wanted to cry again. She could not look at Kitty. Turning her wide eyes to the window so that the whipping wind might keep them dry, she said, “I just want all of my friends to be happy.” This was not the heart of her turmoil, but it was not entirely removed from it. If she gave it space and consideration, she might find a way to give it a voice. The whole process sounded excruciating.

“Oh, look,” said Jester, opening the carriage door. “We are here.”

They had not yet come to a complete stop before she hopped down onto the street. Kitty followed with a cry of, “Wait!”

Together, they made their way into the bowels of the inn, following the low chatter to the end of the tunnel. A handful of tables were occupied, but it was not difficult to make out Louis in the sparse crowd. He sat in a far corner with a glass of wine and his older brother.

George spotted them first.

“Kitty! Miss Lavorre!” he called out with a wave.

Taking the seat beside Louis and across from George, Jester replied, “Surely you know me well enough to call me Jester.”

“If you prefer it.”

Louis’ nose was buried in his journal. He had not so much as looked up to greet them. Perhaps that was for the best, thought Jester. She was not sure she should give Louis his letter in front of George. A less than gentle mocking would certainly ensue.

“George,” said Jester sweetly. “Will you fetch us some drinks?”

“Of course. What would you like?”

“Wine,” said Kitty.

“Also, wine,” said Jester.

Jester was not in the business of drinking wine before lunch. Nor was she in the business of drinking wine after it. But she needed to be rid of George.

The moment George approached the bar, Jester pulled the letter from her pocket and hissed, “Louis, she replied!”

At her words, he tossed his journal across the table without ceremony, and snatched the letter from her hand. Jester tried to read over his shoulder, but George returned too quickly. Louis read on while Jester attempted to hold George’s attention.

“This wine is very red,” she said. “Sometimes wine is not so red.”

“You mean when it is white?” said George.

“No. Well, yes. But sometimes it is a more translucent red. Is that better or worse?”

“I cannot say.”

Kitty joined with, “I think it might be down to preference.”

Jester was beginning to think she might have successfully served as a distraction, Louis let out a choked sob. They all turned their eyes upon him.

Voice trembling, he said, “Miss Elliot is engaged. To another.”

“Oh, I am so sorry!” cried Jester, giving him a rather awkward pat on the back.

“It is a shame,” offered Kitty cordially.

“Yes, a terrible shame,” said George, lounging back in his chair. “Tell me, brother, which one was Miss Elliot again? The very short one?”

“That was Miss Duffey.”

“Miss Elliot was the bad dancer then?”

“No, that was Miss Raines.”

“Of course. Miss Elliot was… blonde?”

“More of a strawberry blonde.”

“Ah, yes. I can see her very clearly now. Well, never mind. It would have never worked out between the two of you anyway. She was too tall and too fine a dancer,” said George, finishing with a wink at Jester.

Louis’ spirits did not seem to be lifted by his brother’s tongue-in-cheek reassurances. He polished off his glass of wine in one quick swig.

“Here,” said Jester, pushing her glass towards him. “It is too red for my liking.” Louis gave her a grateful nod. “Oh! And take this as well!” Jester reached across the table for his journal. “I am sure you have many feelings to write about.”

At that, he met her eye and said, with a sincere firmness, “Thank you, Miss Lavorre. You are an angel among demons.” On the word, ‘demons,’ Louis’ eyes flickered over to George and, to Jester’s great surprise, Kitty.

George made an open-mouthed face of offence while Kitty nonchalantly sipped at her wine. Jester did not know what to make of that, so she changed the topic entirely.

“So, George,” she said. “How have you been?”

“Well enough. I have mostly been on the road. Your father has had me out searching for his next property investment.”

“What sort of property?”

“An inn. He has a few dotted across the south, but he wishes to expand up north. Which reminds me,” he said, turning to Kitty. “Would you mind if I joined you next week? There are a few places in Yorkshire which sound promising.”

Jester whipped around with a cry of, “You are going to Yorkshire?”

“Yes,” said Kitty, wincing a little. “I have an interview with a family who might hire me. I was also planning to stay with Hannah for a while.”

“That is wonderful!” said Jester. “Why did you not say anything?”

Kitty did not meet Jester’s eye as she replied, “I did not mean to keep it a secret. I just wasn’t sure how to bring it up.”

“You thought I would be upset?”

“Perhaps a little.”

“Well, I will miss you. Of course, I will miss you. But that is nothing compared to how much you must be missing Hannah.”

“I might be back. There is no way of knowing if this family will like me.”

“Of course, they will like you!” cried Jester. “Who could meet you and not like you?”

Before Kitty could respond, Louis slammed Jester’s now-empty glass onto the table and said, “I need more wine.”

“No, you do not,” said George. “It is barely noon. Listen, why not come with me to Yorkshire. We can ride along with Miss Cree, if she will allow it, see our dear sister, and find you another poor woman to embarrass with your poetry.”

Louis glared at George for a long moment until, finally, he nodded.

Kitty placed a hand on Jester’s arm and said, “Will you come too?”

“Me? Are you sure?” she asked, glancing around the table. Neither Louis nor George seemed offended by the idea. In fact, George was smiling. “I have never been further north than here.”

“Then it is settled!” cried George. “We will make a journey of it. All four of us.”

“And Nadine. She is escorting me,” said Kitty.

George raised his own glass, exclaiming, “The more the merrier. Jester, why not invite your Mr Widogast?”

He had said it so carelessly.  _ Her  _ Mr Widogast. Her face was alight. She wished, suddenly, that she had not given Louis her wine.

“He is not  _ my  _ Mr Widogast,” she said quickly. “And I am sure he will be far too busy to join us.”

As Kitty gave her yet another concerned glance, George said, “Well, there is no harm in asking him.”

Jester did not necessarily agree. Silly though it was, she felt sick at the thought of his turning down the offer. No, she would not ask. There would be no point to it. She was certain that Mr Widogast would much rather stay and work at the Myriad than accompany her to Yorkshire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you my dears!! please kudos/comment if you enjoyed <3


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